POV: Aurora
I slept poorly.
Not because of the neighbors or the rain, but because of a phrase that kept running through my head: someone up there wanted to see what I saw.
Yesterday was my first day, and they had already sent me a sample of Seraphim. On the bus home, just before I ran out of data, I saw Andrade's email:
"Starting tomorrow, you will have full access to the Seraphim project."
Full access. Day two.
On the bus to Nova Lyra, I hugged the folder with my credentials as if the plastic could protect me from something I still didn't understand.
As I crossed the lobby of Noir Tower, the familiar smell hit me: coffee, expensive perfume, disinfectant. And underneath, faintly, that echo of a storm I tried to ignore.
The elevator to risk analysis was full. No one spoke. I watched the numbers go up.
Twenty-eight. Human Resources.
Thirty. Management.
Thirty-one. Our floor.
Lina was already at her cubicle when I arrived. Wet hair, huge thermos, an expression that said, "Don't talk to me until I've had my first sip."
"Look who's back," she said. "That's an achievement in itself. Some people mentally quit on their first day."
"I still don't know how to do that," I replied, leaving my backpack on the chair.
She studied me for a second.
"That's the suspicious email face," she diagnosed. "What did they do to you now?"
I turned on the computer. The system took just long enough to heighten my suspense. When the desktop appeared, there was Andrade's message, waiting for me.
I showed it to her.
"Aurora,
as of today, you will have access to all Seraphim folders and databases. You will work solely on that project until further notice. Any findings must be documented.
A."
Lina whistled.
"Second day, exclusive focus, and 'by order from above' stamp," she summarized. "Congratulations, you're officially a statistical anomaly."
"Or an experiment," I muttered.
"The two are not mutually exclusive," she replied.
Andrade appeared, almost as if we had summoned him.
"Vega," he said. "Did you see the email?"
"Yes, sir."
He left a folder on my desk.
"Here are minutes, summaries, and some old reports," he explained.
Nothing leaves this floor. You've already seen a sample; now I want you to review the entire project. Mark everything that doesn't add up. Don't think about names yet.
I nodded.
"And everything you do with Seraphim is saved," he added. "Versions, drafts, notes. Nothing is deleted. If something disappears, I want to be able to prove it existed."
"Understood," I replied.
He left as quickly as he had arrived.
"Okay," said Lina, as soon as he was out of earshot. "Confirmed: you're in the middle of the hurricane, not looking out the window."
I opened Seraphim's shared folder. There was much more than I had imagined: presentations with words like "transparency" and "social impact," contracts, tables, exported emails.
One file caught my attention:
"FUND_SERAPHIM_community_programs.xlsx"
I opened it.
Heading: "Funds allocated to community programs and scholarships."
The word "scholarships" made my stomach tighten.
I scrolled down. Names of high schools, health centers, small organizations. Moderate amounts, in neighborhoods I knew from having passed through them a thousand times on the bus.
And then I saw it.
"Aurora Program – cohort 03."
I felt a tug in my chest. It wasn't just my name: it was that name, capitalized, attached to "Program," written in the same font I had seen in the scholarship email.
"What's wrong?" asked Lina, watching my face.
I pointed to the screen.
"The scholarship that brought me here was called the Aurora Program," I said. "I thought it was a nice name, nothing more. But it's here. Inside Seraphim."
"Are you sure it's the same one?" she insisted.
"I have the email saved," I replied. "Same logo, same name."
We leaned over the row. In the columns next to it were dates, amounts, and, in the comments section, phrases I didn't like at all:
"Reorientation of funds."
"Budget adjustment."
"Transaction replaced."
"Wonderful," Lina murmured. "Magic words for 'we did something here that we don't want to explain too much.'"
"If my scholarship came from here..." I began.
I didn't finish the sentence.
Because if my scholarship came from here, I wasn't just an analyst reviewing the project. I was a direct consequence. A product.
"You're a beneficiary," Lina corrected me. "You applied, they gave it to you. Period. The decisions about the money were made by other people, not you."
She was right. But guilt doesn't usually listen to logical arguments.
"Still, this puts me in a conflict of interest, doesn't it?" I asked. "I'm auditing the project that, in part, paid for my life."
"Yes and no," she said. "Legally, Andrade takes care of that. For you, the important thing is how you handle it in your head. And in your reports."
I opened a new document for notes just for myself.
I wrote:
"Personal note: 'Aurora Program' appears in Seraphim's funds. High probability of coincidence with scholarship received. Verify with admission emails/foundation documentation. Do not detail personal connection in report until confirmed."
I saved it in a local folder. Then in another.
"Before you go into 'I'm part of the problem' mode," Lina said, "remember: you didn't decide where the money came from. You just agreed to study. Guilt, yes, but actual responsibility... limited."
"But if there's something fishy here..." I muttered.
"Then it's better that you're the one looking into it," she replied. People who feel indebted can be very dangerous to those who believe no one is going to bite their hand.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I chose to breathe.
I closed my eyes for a moment. The smell of the floor was the same as always: reheated coffee, paper, disinfectant. And suddenly, underneath, a different one, dark and familiar.
Storm. Amber.
My heart raced without asking permission.
Lina put her hand to her temple.
"Dizzy again," she murmured. "There's definitely something in the air in this building when a certain someone is around."
I didn't ask who. I didn't need to.
I couldn't see him, but I could feel him: the murmur of the floor subsided, a chair was dragged too quickly, someone slammed documents shut. The typical silent wave that announced Dante Noir was near.
I forced myself to keep my eyes on the screen.
"Aurora Program - Cohort 03" was still there, next to the amounts and those observations I didn't fully understand. I felt that line was a rope: if I pulled on it, I could untangle something big.
In the company.
And in my own story.
For the first time since I signed, I thought that maybe Seraphim wasn't just a project I had to review.
Maybe it was the uncomfortable answer to a question I had never dared to ask myself:
Was my new life really a reward?
Or was it just another part of someone else's experiment?