The Ghost Auditor

Chapter 3

Michael tore himself away from the mirror. He adjusted the ridiculous, wide lapels of his oversized jacket, and continued toward the main exit.

To get to the elevators, however, he had to walk directly past the premium corporate lounges.

This was the territory of the high-level corporate ladder climbers—the senior traders, risk analysts, and marketing executives who wore custom-tailored smart-suits that shimmered with micro-LED threads.

They were the golden children of the Platinum Group, and they spent their breaks sipping neon-colored energy drinks and laughing at the lower-tier employees.

As Michael walked past, his clunky, heavy-heeled 80s shoes clicking loudly on the floor, the lounge grew quiet. Then, the snickering started.

"Hey, look! The trash from accounting is wandering out into the sun!"

A loud, mocking laugh boomed from the center of the lounge. It came from a senior trader leaning against a glass railing. The man had a smug face, a perfectly styled haircut, and he was casually swirling a glowing green drink in a transparent cup.

"Hey, 1985!" the trader shouted louder, pointing his cup at Michael. "Did your mother sew those ridiculous shoulder pads for you, or did you buy that suit off a dead man in a ditch?"

The entire lounge erupted into laughter. A female executive next to him giggled, covering her mouth. "Seriously, does he think it's a costume party? Look how big the jacket is on him. He looks like a child wearing his dad's clothes."

Michael stopped walking.

The laughter died down slightly as people waited to see if the pathetic accountant would cry or apologize.

In this corporate hierarchy, accountants were considered the lowest form of life—glorified data entry clerks who had no power, no combat skills, and no influence. They were meant to take the insults and keep moving.

Michael slowly turned his body to face the senior trader. He didn't look angry nor embarrassed, His expression was completely blank and his eyes cold and unblinking with a soft smile on his face.

As he locked eyes with the trader, Michael allowed a fraction of his true nature—the terrifying, blood-chilled aura of a 1980s warlord who had ordered the execution of hundreds—to flare out. His posture went rigid. His gaze became heavy, like a physical weight pressing down on the room.

The senior trader’s smile instantly faltered. The man choked on his next sip of the neon drink, coughing violently as a sudden, inexplicable wave of fear washed over him.

The temperature in the lounge felt like it had dropped ten degrees. The trader stepped back, his hand trembling slightly as he wiped his mouth.

Michael spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but it was incredibly smooth, clear, and dripping with an absolute, undeniable authority.

"Keep laughing," Michael said, his robotic gaze pinning the trader to the spot. "A man who spends all his time looking down at others eventually trips over his own feet. And when you fall in a place like this, no one handles your liquidation."

The room went dead silent. The executives stared at Michael, their mouths slightly open, completely stunned by the sheer weight of his words. An accountant wasn't supposed to speak like that. An accountant wasn't supposed to have eyes that looked like they belonged to a professional killer.

Before anyone could find their voice to reply, Michael calmly turned his back on their confused, angry muttering. He stepped into the waiting elevator, leaving the elite traders standing in a heavy, awkward silence.

The elevator dropped rapidly, and within seconds, Michael stepped out of the lobby doors and walked straight into the blinding, white-hot 2030 sunlight.

The moment Michael stepped onto the main avenue of Lagos, his senses were assaulted.

He remembered Jordan as a bustling, chaotic city of loud engines, thick exhaust smoke, and crowded markets. Now, it looked like a structural marvel from a science-fiction comic book.

High above the ground, sleek, magnetic transport pods glided along transparent tracks built between towering skyscrapers.

Massive holographic digital billboards floated in mid-air, displaying moving advertisements for cybernetic upgrades, luxury spaces, and investment funds. The air was clean, devoid of the old diesel smell, replaced by the faint, metallic scent of ozone and electricity.

Michael walked down the crowded sidewalk, feeling completely mesmerized and overwhelmed. People hurried past him, all of them staring at small, glowing devices attached to their wrists or embedded in their glasses. Nobody looked at the sky. Nobody looked at each other.

"Everything is different," Michael murmured, rubbing his temple. "The buildings, the transport... it’s all numbers and light."

Another sharp pain in his stomach reminded him of his primary mission. He needed food.

Following his nose, he smelled the rich, unmistakable scent of grilled meat and spices.

He turned a corner and found a high-end, automated diner called The Fuel Station. The front of the restaurant was completely open to the street, featuring a long, sleek metallic counter with several glowing touch-screens embedded into the surface.

Michael walked up to the counter. There were no human waiters taking orders, just a young, bored-looking attendant standing behind a master terminal, wearing a headset and monitoring the automated dispensers.

Michael looked at the glowing screen in front of him. Pictures of various meals rotated on the display. He tapped a picture of a grilled steak rice bowl. The screen flashed a bright green prompt:

[Order Confirmed. Please present payment to finalize transaction.]

Michael nodded to himself. Finally, something he understood. Business was business, no matter what year it was.

He reached into the deep pocket of his jacket. His fingers wrapped around the heavy, cold metal objects he had found in his pockets when he first woke up.

With a confident flick of his wrist, Michael slaps down a handful of heavy, shiny coins onto the counter.

They made a loud, ringing clink as they scattered across the surface. They were pristine, minted coins from his past life—heavy silver and gold denominations bearing old government seals.

The young restaurant attendant blinked, looking down at the coins. He picked one up, turned it over in his hand, and then looked at Michael’s oversized suit.

A second later, the attendant burst into a loud, mocking laugh.

"What the hell is this, man?" the attendant jeered, waving the heavy coin in the air so the other customers could see. "What museum did you rob before coming here? Hey everyone, look at this guy!"