Chapter 90: Stuck With Spreadsheets

Isabelle led Kane to his office and deposited three thick binders on his desk.

"Supply chain analysis, shipping manifests, and regulatory compliance reports," she announced, each word crisp as winter air.

"Cross-reference columns A through M with the corresponding international codes in appendix seven."

Kane opened the first binder, greeted by endless rows of numbers, dates, and cryptic abbreviations.

"Any discrepancies should be highlighted and categorized by severity level—minor, moderate, or critical. Color-coding is mandatory."

"Color-coding," Kane repeated flatly.

"Yellow for minor, orange for moderate, and red for critical." Isabelle’s tone suggested this was perfectly reasonable.

"Mr. Drakhal expects thorough documentation."

Kane stared at the spreadsheets as Isabelle continued explaining pivot tables and cross-referencing protocols with the enthusiasm of someone describing medieval torture techniques.

"—and ensure the shipping container numbers align with the departure manifests from Rotterdam, Singapore, and—"

"I’d rather wrestle a tentacle monster," Kane muttered under his breath. "At least those don’t require formulas."

Isabelle paused mid-sentence, her pale eyes fixing on him with laser precision.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing. Just... appreciating the thorough training process."

"Good, I’ll leave you to familiarize yourself with the procedures," Isabelle said, her tone suggesting Kane had better master them quickly.

"Mr. Drakhal has a series of meetings this morning that require my attention."

She gathered her tablet and swept toward the door.

"Wait—" Kane called after her. "Shouldn’t I be attending those meetings? You know, as his assistant?"

Isabelle paused, turning back with an expression that could have frozen molten lava.

"Mr. Drakhal’s meetings today involve sensitive corporate negotiations. Your current clearance level doesn’t extend to such matters."

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Kane alone with his spreadsheet prison.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the endless columns of shipping data.

Yesterday, Cyrus had saved him from falling off a building. They’d shared cotton candy and ridden roller coasters.

Now he was color-coding freight manifests like some entry-level clerk.

"Assistant, my ass," Kane muttered, grabbing a yellow highlighter.

This wasn’t how undercover work was supposed to go.

He was meant to investigate trafficking operations, not calculate container capacity from Singapore.

Whatever game Cyrus was playing, Kane couldn’t figure out the rules.

Kane spent the next three hours drowning in spreadsheets, his initial optimism dissolving like sugar in rain.

He’d convinced himself Cyrus had buried some crucial clue in the data—a smoking gun hidden among shipping containers and invoice numbers.

Instead, he found legitimate freight records. Boring, mind-numbing, completely above-board freight records.

Container MSCU-7439821 carried automotive parts from Germany. Container TEMU-9876543 shipped textiles from Bangladesh.

Every manifest checked out, and every code aligned perfectly with international standards.

Kane highlighted discrepancies that turned out to be typos. Minor date errors. A misspelled port name.

"This is actual work," he said to his computer screen, incredulous. "He actually expects me to do his paperwork."

His phone buzzed with a text from Ginsei: How’s the glamorous spy life?

Kane typed back: Currently calculating tonnage ratios for bulk cargo shipments.

Kane slumped in his chair, staring at row 847 of container manifests.

Outside his window, Feilun’s skyline sparkled in the afternoon sun while he sat trapped in Excel hell.

He reached for the orange highlighter and continued his descent into bureaucratic purgatory.

Kane’s phone buzzed again.

Wait, you’re actually WORKING? I thought you’d be lounging in a penthouse somewhere while your dragon daddy feeds you grapes.

Kane snorted, typing back: Unfortunately, yes. Real work. With spreadsheets.

Holy shit. Anyway, I’m not actually checking up on your tragic office life. Have you seen Rina lately?

Kane paused, his highlighter hovering over a shipping manifest. When was the last time he’d seen Rina? The night she’d given him a ride to Mochi’s shop.

Not since two days ago. Why?

She hasn’t shown up to the BSA. At all. Her lab’s locked, her phone goes straight to voicemail, and we’ve got a mountain of evidence from yesterday’s spirit incident that only she can process.

Kane’s stomach tightened. Rina was many things—dedicated, reliable, slightly obsessive about her forensics work—but she wasn’t the type to disappear without notice.

Have you checked her apartment?

Obviously. The building manager says she hasn’t been home. Commander Qi’s starting to panic because half our supernatural evidence is sitting in containment waiting for analysis.

Another text followed immediately: Unlike you, Rina is actually essential to BSA operations. We can function without one fox spirit playing dress-up, but not without our forensics specialist.

Kane bristled at the jab but couldn’t argue with Ginsei’s point. Rina’s expertise in spirit-human crime scenes was irreplaceable.

I’ll ask around, Kane typed back, already pushing away from his desk.

Kane set down his phone, the spreadsheets forgotten.

The last time he saw her was when she’d given him a ride to Mochi’s on her motorcycle. She’d seemed fine then—tired from work, maybe, but nothing unusual.

His stomach twisted as he replayed their conversation outside the convenience store.

Rina had mentioned running more tests on the synthetic binding agent, the one found at both his apartment and Hoshino’s shop.

What if her investigation had led her somewhere dangerous?

Rina was meticulous and cautious. She wouldn’t just disappear unless something had gone seriously wrong.

Just then, the office door opened without a knock, and Cyrus stepped inside.

"How are the reports treating you?" Cyrus asked, loosening his tie as he approached Kane’s desk.

Kane gestured at the highlighted spreadsheets covering his workspace.

"Like a slow, bureaucratic death. But I found seventeen minor discrepancies, color-coded according to Isabelle’s specifications."

Cyrus paused, genuine surprise flickering across his features as he scanned the meticulous work.

"You actually did it."

"Don’t sound so shocked. I’m capable of following instructions."

"I expected you to abandon the task after thirty minutes," Cyrus admitted, the corner of his mouth almost curving upward before he smoothed it away.

Kane stood, stretching muscles cramped from hours of desk work.

"Well, congratulations. You’ve successfully turned a supernatural investigator into an accounting drone."

"Ready for lunch?" Cyrus asked, ignoring Kane’s sarcasm. "There’s a place downtown that I think you’ll want to try."

Kane started to nod, then froze.

"Downtown...Will we be walking around much? Out in the open?"

"Why?"

"That figure from last night. The one watching us at the park, then outside the restaurant." Kane’s grip tightened on his phone.

"Do you think it’s still following us?"

Cyrus’s expression sharpened.

"And you think it’s connected to something?"

Kane thought of Rina’s empty lab and her unanswered phone. The synthetic binding agent she’d been investigating.

"Maybe."