Polina ran a thumb over the calfskin cover of *Krovnia’s Masonry*, the binding stiff beneath her skin as dawn broke through the grime-filmed glass. Jarek Volkov had departed hours ago. She set her teeth, smoothed her pleasant grin into place, and slid the volume into her canvas satchel. By mid-morning, she reached the Ministry site. The Zhelezny edifice loomed in raw aggregate and reinforced girders, its upper tiers caged in iron staging. This was the Orlov family’s prime commission, secured after months of backroom maneuvering. Probation restricted her credentials to the staging platforms and ground-level gravel yards. Yet she remembered Pavel's bragged-over schematics from childhood. The original blueprints included lower archives sealed decades ago, ignored by current municipal work orders. Pavel concealed liabilities where inspection crews never bothered to tread. Polina spent four hours tapping masonry joints with a brass hammer, tracing route lines in her memory. When the midday whistle blew, she ducked past the service shafts and descended three flights of emergency stairs. Cold lime and wet grit thickened the air. Behind stacked tarpaulins and rusted solvent drums, she found the unmarked steel bulkhead. A cylinder padlock secured the latch. Polina produced a small, finely crafted set of lockpicks from a hidden pocket in her trousers. Her fingers, usually clumsy in public, worked with practiced ease, a silent dance of metal against tumblers. The lock clicked softly. She shoved the steel leaf back, exposing a dark chute of stairs descending at a sharp rake. Her pocket torch threw a round pool of yellow against raw concrete. At the bottom, the corridor widened into a vaulted hold lined with rotted inventory crates. Beside them sat three green-enameled steel filing cabinets, their chrome handles unpitted by rust. Polina went straight to the center drawer. She needed discrepancies Pavel had authorized. Working through ledger sheets, she matched supply tallies against engineering sign-offs. The third folder yielded pay dirt: certification sheets for the east pier buttresses, signed with Pavel’s tight script, attesting to high-density Krovnian Ironstone. Tucked behind them were the actual factory bills, listing deliveries of cheap aggregate mix at a fraction of the cost. The margin on the skim was enormous. Polina traced the ink seals, her pulse steadying, when heel-clicks sounded from the iron doorway. "Well, well, Polina. Playing in the dark, are we? Some apprentices stay on the staging. Others go burrowing." Katarzyna stood framed under the low lintel, her wool coat clean, her eyes locking onto the open drawer and the file in Polina's hand. "Lost, sister?" Katarzyna said. "This wing is off-limits. Jarek will terminate your contract before sundown. Or Father will sign the committal forms and save him the paperwork." She raised her handheld radio. "Let us hear what the director thinks." Polina tucked her chin, keeping a polite tilt to her mouth while her fingers pressed into the cardstock folder. Heavy treads crunched on the stair risers. Jarek Volkov ducked beneath the doorway lintel, coat flared wide, dark gaze cutting across Katarzyna, the open metal drawer, and the papers. "Jarek, thank goodness," Katarzyna began, posture stiffening. "I caught her down here in the sealed vaults. Trespassing on municipal property, rifling through archived manifests. It is a direct security violation." Jarek looked at Polina. "Is that so, Orlova? Prowling through records?" Polina held the folder flat, turning the invoice page to catch the overhead torchlight. "Checking load ratings, Director. The mix delivery receipts for Sector Gamma do not match the certified mortar spec." Katarzyna gave a dry laugh. "An anomaly? You are a first-year trainee. What would you know that the lead surveyor missed? She is covering her tracks, Jarek." Jarek stepped between them. He took the sheet from Polina, his thumb brushing the paper margin, and read down the column of figures. When he lifted his head, his gaze hit Katarzyna. "Sector Gamma was your inspection assignment last quarter. You signed the final sign-off. Did you examine the binder slips?" Katarzyna shrank back an inch. "I work from the field engineers' summaries. The paper volume—" "Volume does not excuse fraudulent binder blends," Jarek cut in. "A trainee spots a supplier deficit in five minutes that your quarterly sign-off cleared. If that pier shears, the eastern colonnade drops into the street. It appears your attention was fixed on policing your sister rather than checking batch receipts." Katarzyna’s face flushed scarlet, her carefully constructed composure shattering. “That’s not fair! She was still trespassing!” "She found a load deficit your stamp approved. Your file will record the discrepancy, and your audit privileges are under review." He returned the paper to Polina. "File your assessment with my office by five. And Katarzyna—get back up to the north tier. I want a recalculation on Gamma before shift end." Katarzyna’s jaw tightened. She pivoted on her heel and took the steps two at a time. Jarek paused at the threshold, glancing back. "Work faster next time, Orlova," he murmured, then turned and took the stairs behind her. Later that evening, back in her cramped apartment, Polina found a small, folded paper tucked under her door. It was a drawing, crudely rendered in crayon. A stick figure of Misha, smiling, holding a tiny, intricate birdcage. Inside the birdcage, another stick figure – Pavel – was frantically shuffling papers. Next to Misha, a crude clock showed the hands pointing to midnight. And scrawled underneath, a single word: *’Garret’*. Misha’s drawing made the warning plain. The Garret was Pavel’s private attic vault. At midnight, he intended to clear the off-book ledgers before the firm’s auditors could ever demand them.

Whispers in the Dust