Gregory Gould worked with high efficiency. A few days later, a new identity—a security guard position at a property management company under Prosperity Group—along with the necessary uniform and access permissions, was quietly delivered to James Morgan's rented apartment.

Choosing the property management company instead of the group headquarters was James Morgan's idea.


The position was low enough in the hierarchy to avoid attention, yet still allowed access to some information flow in Prosperity's core areas. Maintenance workers, cleaners, peripheral security personnel—these people were like the capillaries of the city, seemingly insignificant, yet often providing glimpses into secrets that the main body preferred to hide.

He didn't tell Sylvia Sterling about his plan, only instructing her through Gregory Gould to maintain silence temporarily and protect herself.

He had carefully examined the materials in that folder. The subsidiary company in question indeed had numerous problems, with suspicious fund flows, but the evidence currently available was insufficient to shake Victor Shaw's position. Alerting them prematurely would only put themselves at a disadvantage.


At six in the morning, James Morgan changed into a deep blue security guard uniform. The fabric was rough, carrying a mixed smell of disinfectant and sweat stains.

The reflection in the mirror was unfamiliar and humble—eyes downcast, all sharp edges concealed, blending seamlessly with the dilapidated surroundings. He needed this disguise, needed to bury himself completely in the dust.


His assigned work area included the commercial podium attached to the Prosperity Group headquarters building and parts of the underground parking lot for patrol. This wasn't the core area, but with its complex flow of people, it was an ideal position for observation.

The first day's work was tedious and mechanical. Directing vehicles, verifying temporary parking permits, inspecting fire safety facilities.

Once the heir to the group, now wearing the lowest-ranking uniform, performing the most peripheral job in what was once his own property. The enormous fall felt like cold needles occasionally probing his nerves, but his face showed no expression—only an almost numb compliance.

At noon, he ate in a corner of the employee cafeteria. Around him were noisy conversations about salaries, games, and women.

He ate his bland food in silence, but his ears were like radar, picking up any information that might be related to "above."

"Have you heard? The atmosphere at headquarters has been very tense lately, and President Shaw has lost his temper several times."

"Why? Didn't they just acquire that land in the east part of the city?"

"Who knows what goes on with the big shots... Seems like there's some issue with the audit department, but I don't know the details."

"Sigh, in the end it's always us little guys who suffer. Better be careful..."

Audit? James Morgan's fingers tightened slightly around his chopsticks. What was Victor Shaw afraid of?

In the afternoon, he conducted his routine inspection of the B2 level of the underground parking garage. His steps unconsciously led him to the position shown in the photograph. The load-bearing column, the "No Parking" sign... everything matched the photo perfectly. Standing there, he closed his eyes, as if he could travel back to that night seven years ago, seeing "himself" wearing his clothes, completing that dirty transaction with Victor Shaw right here.

A chill crawled up his spine.

"Hey! New guy! What are you daydreaming about?" A gruff voice interrupted his thoughts.

James Morgan immediately opened his eyes, putting on a humble smile as he looked toward the approaching security guard, noting from the shoulder badges that he was a team leader. "Captain Wilson, I noticed the inspection records for this fire hydrant seem a bit off, just double-checking them."

Captain Wilson was a middle-aged man in his forties, slightly overweight, with the scrutinizing gaze of an old hand. He looked James over a few times. "Hmm, the new guy is quite thorough. But don't overthink things, just do your job, and in this place, don't look at what you're not supposed to see."

"Yes, yes, Captain Wilson is right to remind me." James Morgan nodded repeatedly, his attitude submissive.

Captain Wilson seemed satisfied with his attitude and patted him on the shoulder. "Alright, go check out B1 level. There are several VIP cars parked there—don't let anyone scratch them."

"Yes, sir, right away." James Morgan responded, turning to leave.

In the instant he turned around, the submissiveness in his eyes instantly vanished, replaced by cold sharpness. This Captain Wilson, seemingly casual, but that phrase "don't look at what you shouldn't" seemed to have some hidden meaning.

Over the next few days, James Morgan gradually became familiar with the environment and procedures.

He was quiet and hardworking, quickly earning initial approval from some of the veteran security guards, including Captain Wilson.

Using his patrol opportunities, he silently noted the locations of surveillance cameras in the building, the routes of the logistics passages, and even learned some little-known inside information about the group by occasionally lending a hand to maintenance workers.

For instance, Victor Shaw had a habit of staying late in his top-floor office every Wednesday night, as long as he had no social engagements.

For example, the group was indeed conducting an internal audit recently, with the focus seemingly on several overseas affiliated companies.

Another example, Victor Shaw's chief secretary, a woman called Li Wei, was ruthlessly efficient and extremely loyal to Shaw—a figure in the group whom no one dared to offend lightly.

These fragmented pieces of information gradually pieced together in his mind.

That evening, near the end of his shift, while James Morgan was patrolling the outer perimeter of the annex building, he saw a man dressed as a courier holding a small cardboard box, anxiously looking around at the service entrance to the main building, seemingly stopped by security.

"What's going on?" James walked over and asked routinely.

The security guard at the door recognized him and explained, "Brother Morgan, this guy insists on going in, says he's delivering an urgent package to the executive office on the top floor, but he doesn't have an internal appointment confirmation, so according to regulations, we can't let him through."

The delivery man was sweating anxiously. "Brother, please make an exception, it's truly urgent! The client is pressing hard, saying it's materials President Shaw needs for tomorrow's meeting. If I don't deliver this, I'll lose my job!"

The President's Office? Victor Shaw? Something stirred in James Morgan's mind. He looked at the cardboard box. It wasn't large and had ordinary packaging, but there was a special label at the sealed edge with an inconspicuous logo. He vaguely remembered it was the mark of a foreign company specializing in high-end confidential information services.

"Rules are rules." The security guard remained unmoved.

James thought for a moment, then said to the delivery man: "How about this—give it to me. I'm going in for my patrol shift anyway. I'll deliver it to the front desk and have them contact someone from the President's Office to come down and collect it. That way you won't break any rules, and the package will still be delivered."

The delivery man looked immensely relieved and thanked him repeatedly. "That's perfect! Thank you, brother! Thank you!"

The security guard glanced at James but didn't object further.

James Morgan took the paper box, which was not light, feeling a slight heaviness in his hands. With a calm expression, he held the box, swiped his access card, and walked into the logistics corridor. The corridor was dimly lit, with the smell of cleaning agents and machine oil permeating the air.

He didn't go directly to the front desk of the main building but turned into an empty tool room. After locking the door behind him, he placed the box on a utility table, his movements quick and cautious.

He needed to know what was inside. His intuition told him that this "urgent package," delivered at this particular time in this manner, was definitely not ordinary.

He carefully tore off the sealing tape, trying not to leave obvious marks.

Opening the box, he found several thick stacks of documents. On the cover of the topmost one was the logo of Prosperity Group, along with a prominent title—"Preliminary Report on the Audit of Special Accounts of the Group's Overseas Subsidiary 'Starlight Capital'."

Starlight Capital!

James Morgan's heart skipped a beat.

Gregory Gould had mentioned it before, and Sylvia Sterling's files also vaguely indicated that Victor Shaw might be transferring funds through overseas subsidiaries. Could it be this "Starlight Capital"?

He quickly flipped through the documents, which were filled with dense data and charts involving complex equity structures and fund transfers. His eyes rapidly scanned the pages, searching for key information.

Most of the content had been processed and was vague, but in several appendix pages about "abnormal fund outflows," he noticed a few repeatedly appearing offshore company names and partial bank account numbers.

The last four digits of one of these accounts matched shockingly well with those of a shell company account that, according to his memory, the police had accused him of using to transfer funds seven years ago!

Blood rushed to his head instantly, then quickly cooled down.

Found it!

Although it was not yet direct evidence, this was undoubtedly a clear lead! Victor Shaw was likely using the same channels and methods all along! This audit report was obviously conducted secretly because someone internal had noticed something was amiss. And Shaw clearly didn't want this report to be easily exposed, which is why he would use such confidential channels to transmit it.

He had to get this report out!

James Morgan took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He took out the burner phone and switched it to camera mode. The light in the utility room was insufficient, so he had to use the phone's flashlight function to carefully photograph each key page one by one.

The phone's camera had low resolution, requiring stability and patience during the photographing process. Each second seemed extraordinarily long.

Occasional footsteps passing by outside made his nerves tense.

Finally, he finished photographing the last potentially useful page. He carefully checked all the photos, confirming that the key information was clearly visible. Then, he quickly arranged the files back to their original order, returned them to the cardboard box, and carefully resealed it with the spare tape he had brought, trying his best to restore it to its original state.

After completing all this, he carried the box out of the utility room and walked toward the main building's reception desk with a composed expression.

He handed the box to the receptionist, explained the situation, and then turned to leave, as if he had just completed some trivial task.

As he walked out of the cold tower of Prosperity Group, the evening breeze blew against his face with a hint of coolness.

He touched the phone in his pocket that contained the crucial photos, feeling its weight like a massive stone capable of shattering everything.

He had already taken the first step.

Victor Shaw was at the top of that glass palace, perhaps feeling triumphant about some successful acquisition, or perhaps already anxious about the audit report that had just been delivered.

He was unaware that a venomous serpent from the abyss had silently infiltrated his territory and had just taken its first bite.

As night deepened, the city's neon lights illuminated once again. James Morgan merged into the stream of commuters heading home, his silhouette straight, his stride steady.

The path of revenge was long and dangerous, but he had already glimpsed the first ray of light.