You package the board, strip out what you can, and send the evidence somewhere it might outlive you: a regulator, a journalist, a watchdog, any inbox that treats receipts as currency. You choose speed over certainty, because certainty has been the enemy all day, ticking down like a clock you can't negotiate with. Your hands shake as you attach the files. You give the email a dull name, something that might survive a glance without screaming. You feel heroic and pathetic at the same time, whistleblower and panicking man in the same breath. The cell will know something broke. You hope they don't know how fast. Hope, that fragile word, still trying to bargain with people who don't bargain. When you hit send, your stomach drops the way it does when you miss a step on the stairs. [[Burn The Operation|Burn the operation]]