It was 7:44 a.m. when Cassian Neville stepped off the tram in the heart of Brussels, his shoes clicking quietly against the damp stone pavement. The street was still waking up. The sky was grey. There was a smell of coffee and yesterday's rain. He adjusted the cuffs of his coat and walked toward the glass tower that housed Degroof Petercam, one of Belgium's most respected investment firms.
He was an intern. One of eight. Young, overqualified, unnoticed. Just the way he wanted it.
The marble lobby was quiet at this hour. Most employees wouldn't arrive for another fifteen minutes. The receptionist gave him a tired glance, then looked back at her screen. He nodded and walked past.
Elevator.
Sixth floor.
Equity Research Division.
He took his usual spot in the back corner. Nobody sat near him, by accident or design, he didn't know. A stack of reports sat on his desk. Real estate performance. Agricultural investments. Energy portfolios. Intern work. Busywork. But he didn't mind. They were exactly what he needed.
He spent the next hour quietly cross-referencing timestamps from the firm's internal research logs. Most interns wouldn't think to do that. Most wouldn't even know where to look.
Cassian knew.
He noticed something odd last week. An equity report about a mid-sized Belgian tech company—Thalotech—had been internally finished at 10:08 a.m. on a Tuesday. But it wasn't published until 2:34 p.m. That wasn't illegal. Delays happen. But what caught his attention was this: at 1:02 p.m., Thalotech's stock spiked hard. Someone knew the report's content before the public did.
He dug deeper.
Turns out, this delay wasn't a one-time thing. Over the past five months, certain companies' reports had consistent timing gaps. And the same three client accounts placed leveraged trades minutes before those reports dropped. It was clean. Too clean.
Cassian's Plan
He didn't want to report it. He wanted to test it.
He created a fake retail account through a Luxembourg-based broker, one with loose ID verification. The name on the account was made from the identity of a man who died six years ago in southern Spain. The details were real enough to pass.
He funded it with just over €2,000, saved over years of scholarship stipends and tutoring work. It was all he had.
Then he waited.
A new report was in progress this time on a biotech firm, Cymor Pharma. Based on past patterns, the report would likely go live Thursday afternoon. Internal access would be granted Wednesday morning.
That morning, he skimmed the report draft. He didn't copy it. He didn't take a photo. He just read. Memorized.
The language was strong: "Underpriced fundamentals," "expected Q3 clinical success," "buy recommendation."
He left the office for lunch. Took out his phone. Logged into the fake account.
He bought long-call options on Cymor Pharma, heavily leveraged, betting the price would rise at least 8% by Friday.
At 2:17 p.m. the report was released. By 3:09 p.m. the stock had jumped 11%.
By the next morning, his account balance read €14,382.
He didn't celebrate. He didn't smile. He closed the position. Transferred the profit through a crypto bridge into Monero, then into a cold wallet. All gone, all silent.
Later That Day
As the others left the office, Cassian stayed late. He liked the silence. He liked watching the office clean itself up wastebaskets emptied, chairs pushed back into place, the echo of janitors chatting in the hallway.
But he wasn't just staying for atmosphere. He had questions.
Who else noticed the pattern? How big was the leak? And who else had the nerve to call him sloppy?
At 7:21 p.m., he opened his locker to grab his coat.
Inside, between the hanger and the steel wall, was a card. Plain black. No logo. Just one line, embossed in silver:
"Next time, don't be sloppy. We'll talk soon."
He stared at it. His face unreadable.
He closed the locker, put on his coat, and walked out into the night.
—
That night, Cassian walked to a nearby coffee shop tucked between a bookstore and a flower stall. He liked this place. It was quiet. The barista didn't ask questions. He ordered an espresso and sat at a corner table, back against the wall.
He pulled the card from his coat pocket. Plain black. Silver letters. No name. No number.
He didn't turn it over. Just stared at it. Then at the street outside.
His thoughts weren't on who left it. Not yet.