The mahogany-paneled office is exactly where the setup left it, smoke, ash, and panic. Carter Vale is still trapped behind his desk, one hand white-knuckled on the chair arm, the other hovering near the letter opener Murderbone has already beaten him to.

Dallas crosses the room without haste. The burning trash can spits orange light across a half-charred stack of papers, most of them useless, but one envelope on the floor is clean enough to matter.

Murderbone keeps Vale pinned, growling low as Dallas crouches and plucks the envelope free. Inside is a keycard, a cleanup slip, and a handwritten records code. Vale’s bravado cracks when he sees what Dallas finds.

Dallas lets the silence stretch. Vale finally looks past the dog, past the gun, and realizes there is nowhere left to hide. The office door stands open on the scorched hallway, waiting for the next name to fall.

Dallas lifts his phone and turns the screen toward Vale. Rook burns in grainy playback, trapped in the chair, the image turning orange and black with every flicker of the trash fire.

Vale’s face drains. He stops fighting the dog and stares at the screen like it has already put a hand around his throat.

Dallas holds the phone steady, silent and patient. The firelight crawls across the wall behind Vale, and the cleanup slip in his lap trembles under his fingers.

Murderbone eases only enough to keep Vale in place. Vale swallows hard, then adds the last piece as if it burns his mouth.

Dallas takes in the confession. Vale cannot look away from the screen, his fear now mixed with the ugly relief of a man who has finally said the worst of it out loud.

Dallas fires once. The shot cracks through smoke and mahogany, and Vale jerks hard in the chair before going slack.

The cleanup slip slides from Vale’s lap as his hands fall open. Murderbone stays braced over him, then shifts back when it is clear the fight is gone.

Dallas steps in, snatches the slip, and pulls the hidden index from behind the intake copy with his free hand.

The index is thin, stained with smoke, and full of clipped names and drawer marks. One corner is charred, but the routing notes are intact.

Vale stares at the desk, blinking through the shock, while blood darkens the front of his shirt. The open door leaks hallway light into the room.

From somewhere outside, a cautious footstep stops just beyond the threshold.

Dallas bends over the cleanup index and studies the thin pages in the desk light. Smoke clings to the corners, but the handwriting is precise, methodical, and recent.

He traces the routing marks with one finger, then catches a second notation tucked under the charred edge, a duplicate access code written smaller than the rest.

The hallway light shifts across the open door as the footstep returns, slower now, testing the silence.

Dallas folds the index once and slips it into his coat, already having what he came for. On the desk, Vale’s cleanup slip proves the office was only the first layer.

A voice from the hall lands low and careful through the smoke, asking if Carter Vale is alone in there.