No one else but you

The cipher in the canvas

The screen went black.

Orm’s hand flew to her mouth. “Ledger? What ledger?”

Camille’s tears fell silently. “I was going to tell you. After… after I was gone. I didn’t want this to touch you.”

Lingling’s voice was ice. “Start talking.”

Camille took a shaky breath. “When I was sixteen, I ran away from my last foster home. Ended up in Bangkok, looking for… anything. A man found me. Called himself Uncle Lotus. He ran an underground network—art forgery, data smuggling, corporate espionage. He said I had a gift. Taught me to paint, to see details others missed.”

Orm’s eyes widened. “You were a forger?”

“Among other things.” Camille’s laugh was bitter. “I was good. Too good. By eighteen, I was moving millions in fake masterpieces. But Uncle Lotus… he wanted more. He had a ledger. Every deal, every client, every dirty secret of Bangkok’s elite. Politicians, CEOs, triad bosses. He kept it digital, encrypted. I was the only one who could access it.”

Lingling’s tablet pinged. She had already run a trace on the video’s metadata. Dead end. Military-grade obfuscation.

Camille continued. “I wanted out. He let me go—on the condition I’d return if he ever called. I thought he was dead. Cancer, ironically. But someone’s taken his place. They want the ledger.”

Orm’s voice shook. “Why now?”

“Because of you,” Camille said. “Both of you. Kwong Corporation. Mystique Group. Together, you’re a threat. The ledger has dirt on your competitors, your board members, maybe even your families. With it, they could dismantle everything.”

Lingling’s mind spun through scenarios. Blackmail. Market manipulation. Assassination. The painting was a warning—*We know where you live. We know who you love.*

She stood. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Camille grabbed her wrist. “You can’t. They’re watching. Nia—”

Lingling’s eyes narrowed. “Nia works for you?”

“She worked for Uncle Lotus first. She’s been protecting me. But if they sent her with that envelope…”

Orm was already moving, grabbing their coats. “We take the service stairs. Lose them in the metro.”

Camille tried to stand, legs buckling. Lingling caught her, slinging an arm around her waist. “You’re coming.”

“I’ll slow you down.”

“You’re family,” Lingling said. The word felt foreign, but true.

They moved fast. Down six flights, Camille’s breathing ragged. The lobby was empty, the concierge’s desk abandoned. Lingling hacked the security cameras with her tablet, looping the feed. 30 seconds of cover.

Outside, the rain had returned, a cold slash across their faces. They ducked into an alley, footsteps echoing. Lingling’s senses were hyperacute—the drip of water from a gutter (1.2 seconds between drops), the squeal of brakes two streets over, the metallic tang of fear in the air.

Orm hailed a cab, an old Peugeot with a dented fender. The driver, a woman with a nose ring, didn’t ask questions. “Gare du Nord,” Orm said. “Fast.”

As they pulled away, Lingling saw a black SUV idling across the street. Tinted windows. No plates. It followed.

Camille slumped against the window, IV bag clutched in her lap. “There’s a safe house. In Bangkok. The ledger’s there. I can end this.”