The reports should not exist. Not in this quantity. Not in this condition. Not with his brother’s name buried inside so many lines of blurred text and erased statements.
Yet they sit on Damian’s desk in a thick stack, each folder a weight pressed against everything he thought he understood about Adrian. The blinds are half closed, and they cast thin stripes of light over the pages. Nothing in the room moves except for Damian’s fingers, turning one sheet after another with slow, controlled precision.
The first report lists a woman’s name he does not know. She attended a private function years ago. Her statement describes Adrian pressuring her after the event, following her to the elevator, cornering her. The report ends abruptly with a typed note stating the matter was handled privately.
