The Red Ledger

The wine cellar was a crypt of forgotten time. The air hung heavy with the scent of decayed oak and ancient vintages, a thick musk that swallowed sound and blurred light. Mei Ling’s heels echoed like funeral drums on the cold stone stairs as she descended deeper into the fortress beneath the city. She moved with purpose, driven by a pull she could not explain—a whisper threading through her neural implants, urgent and cold as winter’s breath.

At the back wall, behind a false panel of 2045 Bordeaux bottles, a biometric scanner glowed faintly. The cold blue light pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat. She extended her palm; the system recognized her immediately.

Scan complete. Welcome, Mei Ling.