The Laptop Screen

The low hum of the projector was a constant, almost soothing. It was only broken by the occasional scrape of someone shifting on their chair, or Sasha’s crisp, too-optimistic voice. Another PowerPoint, another grand plan for 'sustainable community upliftment' through 'climate-focused creative entrepreneurship.' Nathan dragged a hand across his jaw, feeling the stubble. He hadn’t bothered shaving. What was the point?

Sasha, all sharp angles and relentless energy, gestured at a slide. "…and this new mixed-methodological participatory framework will allow us to integrate local artists directly into the green infrastructure initiatives. Think community gardens, public art installations for greywater management, upcycled material workshops…" Her voice buzzed with an infectious, if somewhat naive, enthusiasm.

Nathan watched the numbers on screen. Budgets. Projected impacts. Partner organizations. His gaze snagged on a line item, tucked away in the 'operational costs' for the proposed 'Riverfront Revitalization Arts Hub.' A figure. A peculiar, round number for 'consulting services,' one that didn't quite gel with the typical itemised breakdowns they’d seen on previous projects. Not a lot, not enough to scream fraud, but enough to feel… off. Like a single wrong note in a predictable melody.

He leaned forward, squinting. The room was warm, close. Someone coughed. The afternoon light, milky and thick, filtered through the tall windows, casting dust motes in lazy currents. Sasha clicked to the next slide, her smile unwavering. The number vanished. Gone.

Later, in the cramped office they shared, Nathan scrolled through the digital version of the presentation. Sasha was at her desk, typing with furious efficiency, the scent of her strong coffee battling the faint mustiness of old paper.

"That consulting fee," Nathan started, without looking up. "For the Riverfront Hub. It felt… high."

Sasha paused, tapping a pen against her chin. "Which one? We’ve got a few external partners. Hydro-Eco, some architectural consultants…"

"No, this was under 'Operational,'" Nathan said, finally looking at her. "A flat 80,000. No breakdown. Just… that."

Sasha waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, that. Yeah, that’s just a placeholder, probably. We’re waiting on final quotes from some new green tech suppliers. Happens all the time. Nothing to worry about."

Nothing to worry about. Nathan knew that line. It was the civic equivalent of 'everything’s fine, go back to sleep.' He nodded slowly, feigning agreement, but the number stuck in his craw. Placeholder. Sure.

He worked on some boilerplate grant applications for the rest of the afternoon, the clack of his old keyboard the only sound besides Sasha’s low murmurs into her headset. But his mind wasn’t on 'synergistic outreach strategies.' It was on that 80,000. And what it really represented.

The evening brought little relief from the heat. The air hung heavy, the kind of summer night where the concrete still radiates the day's aggression. Nathan walked home, past the neon glow of Portage and Main, the humid air sticking to his skin. He ate a cold sandwich, then sat at his rickety desk, the laptop a warm weight on his knees.

He pulled up the public records for 'Hydro-Eco.' Standard stuff. Registered here in Manitoba, respectable board, several city contracts already. He cross-referenced the partners listed in Sasha's presentation. Most were legitimate, well-known firms. But the Riverfront Hub budget… it had included a new entity. 'Veridian Solutions Inc.'

He typed it into the search bar. Limited online presence. A sleek, minimalist website that offered vague services in 'sustainable urban planning' and 'eco-innovation.' No listed address beyond a P.O. box. No real staff biographies. The whole thing hummed with the same kind of generic professional sheen as that 80,000 line item.

Nathan leaned back, the plastic chair creaking under his weight. A fly buzzed lazily near the window, trapped between the glass and the screen. Veridian Solutions. He felt a familiar knot tightening in his gut. The kind that meant something was rotten. Not overtly, not violently, but a slow, quiet rot that ate away at the edges of things.

He spent the next few days digging. During lunch breaks, he’d find a quiet corner of the library, the cool air a welcome respite. At night, he’d forgo sleep, the glow of his screen illuminating his determined frown. Public databases, corporate registries, news archives. It was like sifting through sand for specks of gold. Most of it was just sand.

Sasha was oblivious, or pretended to be. Javier, the quiet tech guy from the basement office, was another story. He’d occasionally pop upstairs for coffee, his dark eyes taking in everything, saying nothing. Nathan caught him once, staring at the projected budget slides with a peculiar intensity.

"That Veridian lot," Nathan said to Javier, catching him by the water cooler one sweltering afternoon. "Any idea who they are?"

Javier shrugged, took a sip from his paper cup. "New. Came on board late, I think. Heard something about a… expedited approval. For a pilot project."

"Pilot project for what?" Nathan pressed. The water in the cooler gurgled, a sound disproportionately loud in the quiet hallway.

Javier paused. His eyes flickered to the closed door of Sasha's office, then back to Nathan. "Some kind of… carbon credit trading platform. They're developing it. Supposedly. Through the arts program, somehow."

He walked away then, leaving Nathan staring at the water cooler, the silence thick around him. Carbon credit trading. Through an arts program. The cynicism in Nathan’s heart curdled. That wasn't just off; it was a contradiction in terms. This wasn't about public art and greywater management anymore. This was something else entirely.

That night, Nathan stayed late. He told Sasha he had grant applications to finish. She just nodded, already halfway out the door, eager for whatever social event pulled her away. The office was quiet, save for the hum of the old server rack in the closet.

He pulled out his small, battered external hard drive. It contained a suite of tools he’d accumulated over years of hacking into university Wi-Fi or salvaging lost data for friends. Nothing illegal, just… resourceful. He needed to get past the basic firewall. Javier had mentioned a 'temporary bypass' for a contractor last week, a back door that might still be ajar.

His fingers flew across the keyboard. The air in the office was stale, thick. Sweat pricked at his temples. He navigated through the program's network, a labyrinth of shared folders and access logs. He found the 'Veridian Solutions' project folder. It was sparsely populated, mostly containing vague proposals and more of those perfectly round figures.

Then he saw it. A subdirectory, hidden several layers deep, labelled 'Client Transfers - Secure.' He knew he shouldn't click it. But the pull was too strong. His heart hammered, a dull drum against his ribs.

He clicked. A log appeared. Dates. Transaction IDs. Amounts. Large amounts. Transfers from the 'Riverfront Revitalization Arts Hub' budget, funnelled directly to Veridian Solutions. But the outgoing payments from Veridian weren't to 'eco-innovation' or 'sustainable urban planning.' They were to a series of offshore accounts. Cayman Islands. Panama. Each transfer matched the specific amounts budgeted for the supposed 'consulting services' and 'pilot project development.' The numbers added up perfectly. Too perfectly.

It wasn’t a glitch. It was a bleed. A systematic siphoning of public funds, laundered through an arts program, disguised as climate entrepreneurship. Nathan felt a cold wave wash over him, cutting through the summer heat. The 80,000 was just the tip of it. He scrolled down, his breath hitching as the sheer scale of it became apparent. Millions. Millions meant people. People who didn't like being found out.

He copied the log to his drive, his hands shaking slightly. Proof. Irrefutable proof. The implications of this would shatter Sasha's naive world, destroy everything she believed in about their 'good work.' And it would ruin a lot of powerful people.

A floorboard creaked behind him. Not the usual groan of the old building settling. A distinct, heavy shift. Nathan froze, his muscles tensing. The screen glowed, illuminating the damning evidence. He hadn’t heard anyone come in. The office door was still closed, he was sure. He’d locked it, hadn’t he?

The air suddenly felt much colder. A sharp, metallic tang filled his nostrils. He spun around, pushing his chair back with a violent scrape. The office was dark behind him, a shapeless mass. But then, a silhouette detached itself from the deeper shadows, moving slowly, deliberately, towards him. A glint of something in its hand. Not a pen. Not a phone. It was too long. Too thin. And impossibly sharp.

He was caught. Exposed. The hard drive, hot in his palm, felt impossibly heavy.