Kol in Baltimore 5

Floor 18, 10:00 a.m. sharp.

The elevator doors slid open onto a quieter floor: frosted glass partitions, soft lighting, the low hum of focused people who looked like they ate spreadsheets for breakfast.

A woman in her early thirties was already waiting by the reception island: tall, East-Asian, black hair in a sleek bob, wearing a forest-green sheath dress and an expression that said she had zero time for bullshit.

“You’re Kol,” she said, not a question. She stuck out her hand. Grip like iron. “Danielle Park. I run Forensic Accounting and Special Investigations. Come on.”

No small talk. She turned and started walking. I followed.

We passed rows of glass offices and open workstations. A few people glanced up, curious, but no one smiled. This wasn’t the “welcome aboard” floor, this was the “prove you belong or get out.

Danielle pushed open a door at the end of the hall. Inside, a corner office with two monitors, a standing desk, and a view of the In