The air in the data center was arctic, a constant hum vibrating through the steel floor. Rows of servers blinked like a thousand sleepless eyes, their green and red lights reflecting in the sweat slicking my forehead. I was here to meet Finch, a ghost in the machine, rumored to know the trails left by a vanished politician. He was slouched in a swivel chair, bathed in the sickly glow of a monitor displaying lines of code I couldn't comprehend. "You got the info?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper above the whirring fans. He didn't turn, just tapped a key, and a single file name flickered on the screen: "Pandora's Box." "Open it," I urged, but Finch just chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "Some doors," he said, "are best left unopened. Especially in a place where secrets are the most valuable currency."
