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As Gap's eyes adjusted to the blinding sunlight streaming through the massive floor-to-ceiling window, the world before him began to take on its usual clarity.

The man standing by the window, half-turned to glance at him over his shoulder, finally clicked into place in Gap's memory. He matched someone from his past—someone he hadn't thought about in years.

"Mr. Lynch…" The door behind him clicked shut, and Gap glanced back to see the guard posted outside. Through the frosted glass of the door, the silhouette of the guard remained visible, dutifully stationed. Inside the room, besides Lynch, there was another figure—a man who looked like some kind of investigator or agent.

Lynch moved toward the chair that had always belonged to the warden and sank into it with an air of ownership. He gestured for Gap to sit across from him. Gap hesitated for a moment but complied.

Gap had seen the warden of this prison more than once. A cold, imposing figure, the warden ruled this small kingdom as its king. This wasn't just any correctional facility—it housed only those serving sentences longer than ten years or individuals tied to high-profile cases, often involving political scandals. What happened inside these walls rarely reached the outside world—if ever. Here, the warden was the law; his rules superseded federal statutes, and no one dared question them.

But today, someone else occupied the throne. And that fact alone threw Gap's delayed understanding of Lynch into disarray. His gaze drifted past Lynch, through the expansive window behind him, taking in the sprawling prison below. From this vantage point, the entire facility lay sprawled out like a map. It was impossible not to feel dwarfed by the view.

Sitting here, facing the desk, one couldn't help but notice how the prison itself became the backdrop to the person seated in the warden's chair. When Gap first saw this setup, he found it almost comical—the arrogance of it all. But after spending time within these walls, he understood. This wasn't pretense; this was reality.

"You're probably wondering why I'm here," Lynch said, pulling Gap's attention away from the scenery. As their eyes met again, Lynch gave a slight nod and continued, "I'm here representing the Baylor Federation National Security Council (NSC) as a special advisor. I have some questions for you."

At this revelation, Gap understood exactly why Lynch was sitting where he shouldn't be. The NSC was a behemoth of power, tasked with addressing anything that might threaten national security—domestic or foreign. Their authority was vast, their privileges even greater. Even the warden had to bow to someone wielding such influence.

What puzzled Gap, though, was how Lynch had risen to become a special advisor to the NSC.

"You're not one of those inconsequential people down below," Lynch remarked, reading Gap's thoughts. "You understand the significance of the NSC."

Gap nodded slowly.

"It seems we'll get along just fine," Lynch said, a faint smile playing on his lips. He paused briefly, giving both himself and Gap a moment to settle before asking, "According to our investigation, both the Listoan Group and the former EverBright Group funneled benefits to Bupayne. Is that correct?"

Gap had expected simpler questions—something vague about CEO Neo's situation, perhaps, allowing him to respond with harmless platitudes and wrap things up neatly. After all, Lynch's visit could serve as leverage. If word got around that Gap knew someone connected to the NSC, life in prison would become marginally easier.

But this? This was a loaded question.

After a full minute of contemplation, Gap shook his head. "My role at the company was limited to auditing financial transactions. Where the money went or who received it—I never had access to that information."

Lynch stared at him, neither flinching nor breaking eye contact. Slowly, he shook his head. "You're lying. You know."

Federal conduits for funneling interests came in many forms, but the most common method involved private foundations. While seemingly clumsy, this approach was envied worldwide. Every senator in Congress ran their own businesses, secretly holding stakes in countless foundations. Because private equity funds weren't required to disclose public records, lawmakers could amass significant shares without fear of exposure—until, of course, a scandal erupted and triggered an investigation.

To send money their way, one simply needed to make a donation to one of these foundations. For instance, gifting a million bucks to a birdwatching foundation under the guise of supporting field research equipment. Whether birds held economic value or not was irrelevant. Such donations were perfectly legal—as long as the funds weren't derived from criminal activity or used to finance illegal enterprises, they passed scrutiny.

From there, profits were distributed among shareholders according to standard private fund practices. With no oversight from regulatory bodies or public accountability, layers of obfuscation ensured beneficiaries remained hidden. Corporate donations to obscure foundations? Par for the course.

As an auditor, Gap tracked every transaction. Ignorance wasn't an option. Yet he stayed silent, knowing full well what Lynch implied. There was another ledger—one detailing the true recipients of these funds. But revealing it meant signing his own death warrant. Those at the top wouldn't hesitate to erase someone like him—a lowly inmate already under federal surveillance. A single phone call, a whispered command, and he'd vanish without a trace.

No one would ask questions.

The prolonged silence confirmed Lynch's suspicions. Turning to the NSC agent beside him, he instructed, "Wait outside. I'd like to speak with Mr. Gap alone."

The agent hesitated briefly before complying. Everyone knew Lynch had ties to the upper echelons of the NSC. Getting entangled in disputes of this magnitude wasn't worth the risk. Moments later, the door closed, leaving Lynch and Gap alone.

"You're insulated in here, unaware of recent developments," Lynch began, leaning forward slightly. "If you knew, you wouldn't cling so tightly to your silence."

"I didn't go to anyone else—not Neo, not anyone. I came straight to you. That should tell you something."

"I'm aware of your concerns. But let me assure you: cooperate with us, and I can guarantee your safety until your sentence ends."

Lynch's tone shifted, adopting a sardonic edge. "Consider this: you fear what they might do to you if you talk. But don't you wonder what I—or those backing me—are capable of?"

His lips curled into a chilling smirk as his gaze flickered toward the office door behind Gap. "Accidents happen every day. Perhaps during your return to your cell block, you attempt to seize a guard's weapon. Maybe you ignore warnings and try to escape. Inevitably, you're shot dead."

"Your demise might teach the next person the importance of cooperation."

The threat hung heavy in the air, unvarnished and direct. Gap felt the weight of it pressing down on him. He was just an accountant, dragged unwillingly into a political maelstrom.

"Die now, or help us defeat our opponents and live. It's not a difficult choice, is it?"

Lynch pulled out a cigarette case, lit one casually, and exhaled a plume of smoke. His demeanor was relaxed, almost bored. Everyone knew the right answer. Gap's hesitation stemmed not from ignorance but from searching for a middle ground—a way out that spared him entirely.

But in battles like this, compromise didn't exist.

Two minutes passed before Gap finally spoke. "If I talk… what do I get?"

Lynch's smile widened, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "Have you heard of the Special Talent Recruitment Act?"

Under federal law, certain agencies could requisition prisoners serving sentences of five years or less to work directly for the government. Ostensibly created for specific operational needs, the legislation served darker purposes known only to those who drafted it. Still, for inmates, it represented a lifeline—a chance at redemption.

When Lynch mentioned it, he noticed a flicker of interest ignite in Gap's eyes.

Leaning in slightly, Lynch sweetened the deal. "If we succeed—and you know what I mean—I can present your value to the judge. We'll petition for reduced sentencing and propose transferring you to a private facility…"

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