The afternoon sun streamed through the large glass windows of the office floor, casting long shadows across Duncan's desk as he hunched over his laptop. The numbers on the spreadsheets glowed faintly in the artificial light, columns of balance sheets, revenue projections, and asset allocations meticulously detailed. Duncan’s sharp eyes scanned each row, every formula, every transaction. On the surface, the Carraro account appeared perfect—almost too perfect.

Their numbers matched industry averages with uncanny precision, and the small deviations that did exist only skewed slightly above the benchmarks. It was polished, calculated. But to someone with Duncan’s analytical mind and gut instinct, it was clear that this wasn’t the result of sheer operational efficiency. Something wasn’t right.

His fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up additional reports, cross-referencing supplier details, and tracing supply chains. His suspicions kept circling back to Trask International. Trask’s primary business revolved around Sentinel technology, a field heavily regulated and primarily contracted by governments. Private companies—especially small firms like Carraro—rarely had any reason to engage with Trask, let alone at the scale Carraro was operating. Duncan narrowed his eyes as he traced transaction after transaction, each one adding fuel to his curiosity.

Then he found it: addresses. A handful of locations tied to Carraro’s transactions with Trask. Warehouses, ostensibly, but their distribution patterns didn’t make sense for a standard private security operation. Duncan leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. He made a note of the addresses—he already knew what he was going to do after his shift.

For now, though, there was another matter to handle. If anyone could provide clarity—or at least confirm his suspicions—it was Mr. Davidson, his department manager. Duncan gathered his reports, stacked them neatly, and headed for Davidson’s office, his polished shoes clicking softly against the tiled floor.

Davidson’s office was a corner room with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the sprawling Dallas skyline. The space was meticulously organized, with dark wooden furniture, framed certifications, and a few photographs of Davidson with prominent figures in finance and government. Behind the large desk sat Davidson himself, a stocky man in his late 50s, his thinning hair combed neatly to the side. His usual air of calm authority seemed slightly frayed today, his shoulders tense as he stared at his computer screen.

Duncan knocked on the doorframe, leaning slightly into the room. “Mr. Davidson?”

Davidson looked up, blinking as though pulled from deep thought. “Duncan. Come in,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.

Duncan stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “Howdy, sir,” he said as he sat down.

Davidson offered a faint smile. “Howdy.”

Duncan set his reports on the desk, tapping them lightly with his fingers. “So, I’ve been lookin’ at these reports here,” he began. “They look normal. Too normal. Most of their info matches the market average perfectly, while some numbers are just slightly above.”

Davidson leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Great. Then we can move forward with the bond origination, right?”

Duncan hesitated, tilting his head slightly. “I ain’t sure, sir. Somethin’ about this Trask thing is botherin’ me.”

Davidson raised an eyebrow. “Why? What about it?”

“It seems like an irregular amount of stock for a company like Trask to supply,” Duncan said, his voice calm but firm. “It’s almost like they’re buyin’... y’know, Sentinels.”

Davidson’s expression hardened, though he forced a chuckle. “C’mon, Duncan, don’t be ridiculous. No company buys Sentinels. Those are used by the government to protect us from... y’know... mutants.”

Duncan’s jaw tightened, his voice lowering slightly. “Violent mutants, no?”

Davidson shrugged, leaning forward slightly. “All of ’em have violent potential, don’t they?”

Duncan’s eyes narrowed, his tone sharpening. “Not really, if ya consider the ones in Epsilon class.”

Davidson scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “The ugly ones? Well, they’re just ugly. They ain’t a threat.”

Duncan’s face remained neutral, though his patience was wearing thin. “Yeah… I suppose,” he said carefully, before shifting the conversation back. “Regardless, I wanted to check on the company stock before we issue these bonds.”

Davidson blinked, his expression tightening. “What?”

“I wanna see what kind of assets they’re purchasin’ from Trask,” Duncan explained. “Make sure there’s no breach of federal law, or that the assets ain’t unrelated to their stated business. If they’re buyin’ useless… stuff, it could be a reason to lower their credit rating. And we both know what the average institutional investor would think if they found out they were givin’ credit to a company buyin’ nonsense.”

Davidson’s face paled slightly, though he quickly forced a smile. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said, his voice a bit too quick.

Duncan watched him carefully, the slight tremor in Davidson’s hand as he reached for his coffee cup, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. He’s hiding something. With his X-ray vision, Duncan discreetly focused on Davidson’s chest. His heart rate was elevated, his breathing shallow. It was clear that the mere suggestion of investigating Carraro’s stock had rattled him.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Okay, then,” Duncan said smoothly, rising from his chair. “It’s fine. I’ll go back to work.”

Davidson nodded quickly, his forced smile returning. “Yeah. You do that, Duncan. No need to overcomplicate things.”

Duncan turned to leave, pausing at the door. “Excuse me, sir.”

“See ya, Duncan,” Davidson said, his voice almost dismissive.

Duncan stepped out of the office, closing the door behind him. As he walked back to his desk, his mind was racing. Why is Davidson nervous? What’s he hiding?

Whatever it was, Duncan wasn’t about to let it go. Not yet. Tonight, after his shift, he’d follow the trail—and see just what Carraro was really up to.

The office floor gradually emptied as the day wound down, the usual cacophony of phones ringing and conversations fading into the quiet hum of fluorescent lights. Duncan Nenni sat at his desk, meticulously finishing his work while keeping an eye on the clock. His plan was simple but risky—wait until everyone left, then dig deeper into the Carraro account. He already had the addresses, and one in Arkansas stood out like a sore thumb. A warehouse.

By the time the last of his colleagues had packed up and headed home, Duncan was ready. He stuffed a slim folder containing key documents into his leather satchel, grabbed his phone, and made his way out of the building. The evening air was cool as he stepped into the shadows of a nearby alley. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he crouched slightly, then launched into the sky in a streak of blue plasma light.

The ground disappeared beneath him as he climbed higher, the city lights sparkling like a constellation below. Flying was liberating—a mix of adrenaline and clarity—but tonight his thoughts were racing too fast to fully enjoy it.

“What if they really are Sentinels?” he muttered to himself, his voice lost to the wind. “Doesn’t matter. Gotta find out.”

He adjusted his trajectory, heading toward the address in Arkansas. The journey took only a few minutes, his supersonic speed cutting through the night like a comet. As he approached the location, the landscape shifted from urban sprawl to sprawling farmland and dense woods. The address came into view—a large warehouse, its metal exterior glinting faintly under the moonlight.

Duncan hovered high above, studying the area. The warehouse sat in a clearing surrounded by chain-link fencing topped with razor wire. Floodlights illuminated the perimeter, and armed guards patrolled the grounds in pairs. Duncan’s sharp eyes caught the faint shimmer of security cameras mounted on poles and walls.

“A warehouse?” he muttered, narrowing his eyes. “Why does a security company need a warehouse? Maybe it’s where they stock their gear. Let’s check.”

Lowering his altitude, Duncan flew closer but kept to the shadows, his movements precise and controlled. Once he was in range, he pulled his camera, scanning the interior. His enhanced senses gave him a clear view inside: rows of crates, some marked with familiar corporate logos—Trask International—and others with no markings at all. Men in tactical gear moved between the crates, their weapons gleaming under the harsh interior lights. A few desks were scattered at the back, lined with monitors displaying security feeds.

Duncan’s heart raced. “Armed guards inside and out? This ain’t just a gear warehouse. What the hell’s goin’ on here?”

Before he could process further, the rumble of engines caught his attention. He turned his gaze toward the road leading to the warehouse, where a convoy of SUVs and a single truck approached, their headlights cutting through the dark. Duncan adjusted his position, perching on the edge of a nearby billboard to observe.

The vehicles came to a halt near the warehouse entrance, and the guards outside immediately stiffened, their postures straightening. The truck’s rear doors swung open, and none other than the infamous X-Cutioner, stepped out. Dressed in tactical gear with red accents, his black hood and polished chrome mask caught the light, making him look like a specter of death. His movements were purposeful, every step calculated.

Duncan’s breath caught. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “I knew this was fishy.”

The Carraro men gathered near the vehicles as Denti approached. One of them, a tall man in his mid-thirties with a neatly trimmed beard, stepped forward nervously.

“Mr. Denti,” the man—In a full blue and black tactical uniform—began, his voice tinged with apprehension. “We didn’t know you were gonna be here tonight.”

Denti’s modulated voice carried across the clearing, cold and sharp. “Well, expect the unexpected, Thompson.”

The man, probably a lieutenant, Thompson from what Duncan gathered, swallowed hard. “What do you have for us?”

Denti gestured toward the truck. “Sentinel blasters. The ones they stole from us.”

Thompson’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yes,” Denti replied, his tone flat. “Ten of them. You’re lucky to be gettin’ them back.”

“That’s great,” Stevenson said, nodding quickly. “Let’s get inside. It’s gettin’ cold out here.”

“Agreed,” Denti said. He waved a hand, and the guards began unloading crates from the truck.

Duncan, hovering in the shadows, felt his pulse quicken. “Motherfuckers,” he whispered. “They’re either workin’ with the Friends of Humanity or they’re a shell front for the FoH. Shit.”

With his phone, Duncan activated the camera. Carefully, he began snapping pictures of the scene: Denti, the armed guards, the Sentinel blasters being unloaded. His steady hands ensured the images were sharp, capturing every detail that could later serve as evidence.

As he worked, one of the guards near the warehouse suddenly paused, his head tilting as if he’d sensed something. Duncan froze, watching as the guard turned toward his direction, squinting into the shadows.

“Shit,” Duncan muttered, lowering his phone.

The guard began walking toward him, his rifle held at the ready. Duncan’s mind raced. “Gotta bail. Dang it.”

With a quick burst of energy, Duncan launched himself into the air, becoming a blue blur against the dark sky. The sudden movement caught the guard’s attention, and he raised his rifle, shouting something to the others. But by the time reinforcements arrived, Duncan was long gone, streaking through the night at supersonic speed.

Miles away, Duncan finally slowed, hovering above a quiet stretch of forest. He let out a heavy sigh, his breath visible in the cool night air. “Damnit,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “They definitely saw me.”

He checked his phone, scrolling through the photos he’d managed to take. The images were clear, damning. Sentinel blasters, armed guards, the X-Cutioner himself—it was all there.

As he hovered in the darkness, his mind raced. Carraro wasn’t just a private security firm. They were tied to the Friends of Humanity, possibly supplying them with advanced weapons. And now, they knew someone had seen them.

“Great,” Duncan muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. “Now I’m on their radar.”

But even as doubt crept in, another part of him felt resolute. Whatever was happening, it was bigger than corporate bonds and financial reports. Duncan knew he couldn’t ignore it. Not anymore.

The next day dawned quietly for Duncan Nenni, the Dallas skyline glowing faintly in the early morning light as he sipped his coffee, his mind already racing. He had barely slept, the events of the previous night in Arkansas replaying in his head. The warehouse, the Sentinel blasters, and the presence of the X-Cutioner—it all painted a picture of something far larger and more dangerous than just a bond deal gone sideways.