Victor laughed again, colder. “And where is your father now?”
“He’s dead.”
The word landed like lead. Clara made a small, broken sound.
Victor hesitated—only for a second—then pressed on. “Sorry for your loss, kid. But let’s get back to—”
“He was a security systems architect,” the boy continued, voice steady. “He designed vaults for banks across three continents. He taught me how locks think, how people think when they design them. He said the most expensive safes aren’t bought for protection. They’re bought for vanity.”
Victor’s face darkened. “That’s nonsense.”
“Is it?” The boy stepped closer to the vault, fingers brushing the panel with eerie familiarity. “You didn’t change the factory master code, did you? Most people don’t. They layer new security on top and think the old weakness disappears.”
He pointed to the small engraved plate near the base. “Serial number HT-392176. Reverse it, adjust the final digit per the Helios protocol, and you get 671293. That’s your code.”
Victor staggered. The color drained from his face. The number was exact.
The room was silent except for the soft hum of the air conditioning.
“How?” Victor whispered.