The numbers refused to rest.
Noah zoomed out, then out again, watching the ledger redraw itself into something unsettlingly elegant. "This isn't laundering," he said. "It's circulation."
Aria nodded. "Maintenance."
---
The money never pooled.
Never spiked.
Never vanished.
It flowed—small, steady transfers across jurisdictions designed to look boring. Vendor retainers renewed automatically. Storage contracts paid years in advance. Consultants billed for work they no longer remembered doing.
A system kept warm.
"They built it to survive audits," Noah said. "And boredom."
"They built it to survive me," Aria replied.
---
One account caught her eye.
Inactive on paper.
Active in practice.
"It's paying for things that don't exist anymore," Noah said. "Facilities that were decommissioned. Teams that were dissolved."
Aria followed the trail. "Dissolved publicly," she corrected.
---
She pulled an older snapshot—before her death.
The pattern was already there.
"This didn't start after I disappeared," she said. "It just stopped needing me."
Noah looked at her. "So the organization learned."
"Yes," Aria said. "It evolved."
---
At the center wasn't a person.
It was a rule set.
If X, then fund Y.
If asset dormant, sustain minimally.
If subject unresolved, keep infrastructure alive.
No approval required.
"No one's signing off on this," Noah said. "Which means no one can shut it down."
Aria closed the window. "Not from the outside."
---
She stood, slow and deliberate.
"They didn't keep the money moving to bring me back," she said.
"They kept it moving in case I did."
Noah swallowed. "So what happens if you touch it?"
Aria's smile was thin.
"Then whoever's been pretending this is automatic," she said,
"has to admit they're still watching."
The money kept flowing.
Patient.
Quiet.
Waiting.