Malcolm had used the upstairs office for private meetings.
Daniel Voss had used it to keep records.
And somewhere inside, according to Natalie, there might still be a digital archive that could explain what happened during Agrippa’s final fight.
The front door was locked.
Natalie pointed toward a narrow staircase beside the building.
“The upstairs entrance used to be separate. Malcolm didn’t like people seeing who came and went.”
Agrippa climbed the stairs first. The landing smelled of damp wood and old smoke. A small brass plate beside the door had been removed, leaving four screw holes in the wall.
He tried the handle.
Unlocked.
Inside, the office had been stripped of most of its furniture. Dust covered the floor, and the windows were blocked by heavy curtains. A desk stood against the far wall, its drawers hanging open. Someone had searched the room recently.
Agrippa crouched beside the desk.
There were fresh scratches around the bottom drawer, and a thin line of dust had been disturbed beneath the cabinet.
“Someone’s been here,” he said.
Natalie examined the desk.
“Daniel kept a computer in this room. It was connected to a separate network. He used to say that important records should never share a system with ordinary business files.”
“Did he keep backups?”
“He claimed he kept three.”
Agrippa searched the desk, finding only old receipts, a broken pen, and a key attached to a faded plastic tag. Natalie checked the tag and shook her head.
“It’s not one of the keys I remember.”
He moved toward a tall filing cabinet. The top drawer was locked, but the small key opened it. Inside lay a bundle of old documents tied with string.
The first pages contained training schedules and promotional photographs. The next were copies of contracts bearing Agrippa’s signature.
At the bottom of the drawer, he found a folded sheet of paper with his own handwriting.
It was dated three days before his championship fight.
If anything happens to the original records, the archive is stored under the phrase I used after the Portland camp. The phrase is not a name or a date. It is the thing I said I would never surrender.
Agrippa read the note twice.
“I wrote this?”
Natalie leaned over his shoulder.
“It looks like your handwriting.”
“I don’t remember writing it.”
“Could you have been protecting yourself?”
“Maybe.”
He searched his memory. Portland. The final training camp before the championship. He had spent two weeks there recovering from a minor injury and preparing for the most important fight of his career.
During that camp, his coach had asked him what he would do if he lost everything.
Agrippa had answered without thinking.
“My name.”
He had meant his identity, his dignity, and the part of himself that had existed before money and fame.
He had never surrendered his name.
“Try it,” Natalie said.
Agrippa examined the note again. Beneath the handwriting, almost invisible beneath a fold, were the letters A.F.
His initials.
He took out his phone and opened a secure storage application Victor had once helped him set up. Years earlier, after a series of stolen training videos, Victor had encouraged him to protect his personal files with encrypted backups. Agrippa had forgotten most of the technical details, but the application still recognized his credentials.
He entered the phrase.
MY NAME.
The screen remained blank for several seconds.
Then a notification appeared.
ARCHIVE FOUND.
Agrippa felt his pulse quicken.
A list of encrypted files filled the screen. Some were dated before the championship. Others were created in the days after the fight. There were copies of contracts, payment records, email conversations, and audio files.
One file was labeled:
MALCOLM—FINAL AGREEMENT.
Another read:
- VOSS—TRANSFER INSTRUCTIONS.
The final file had no title, only a date.
The day of Agrippa’s championship fight.
He opened the first document.
It was a contract between Rourke Promotions and a company registered overseas. The agreement authorized a series of payments to unnamed intermediaries, supposedly for promotional services. A second page contained a list of fighters whose purses would be reduced if the event failed to meet certain financial targets.
Agrippa’s name appeared at the top.
Beside it was a note:
If he wins, adjust the distribution. If he loses, close the account and transfer the balance.
He stared at the words.
“They expected me to lose,” he said.
Natalie read the document carefully.
“It looks that way.”
“Who was my opponent working for?”
“I don’t know. But the payment instructions may tell us.”
Agrippa opened the next file. It contained a series of messages between Malcolm and Daniel. The language was guarded, filled with abbreviations and references to meetings. But one message was unmistakable.
Malcolm: If Fisher wins, the investors will demand an explanation.
Daniel: Then the official records must show that the money was never guaranteed.