# The Server Farm

The fluorescent hum was louder than the rain outside, a thousand fans spinning like broken promises in the dark. I moved between the racks like a ghost through a chrome cemetery, my footsteps swallowed by the white noise, each server tower a tombstone for someone's secrets. The air was cold enough to see your breath, and twice as cold to feel your conscience. They'd hired me to find the leak in their system—funny word, leak, like data was water and not the bloodstream of corporate lies. I plugged in the drive they gave me, watched the green lights cascade like a city burning from above, and that's when I knew: they didn't want me to find who stole the files. They wanted me to find who knew about the stealing and hadn't drowned in the river yet. In a room full of machines that never slept, never forgot, and never talked, I was the only loose end. The only one who could lie.
