# Chapter 9 — The Audit

A journalist named Maya Torres noticed the anomaly the way good journalists notice things: not because someone pointed it out, but because the data wouldn't sit still.

She'd been working on a series about suicide rates in metro Atlanta — the kind of story that wins awards and changes nothing, because the people who read it already care and the people who don't read it are the ones who build the systems that cause it. Five years of county death records. Cross-referenced by zip code. Age-adjusted. Seasonally corrected. The kind of statistical work that looks clean on a spreadsheet and feels dirty in your stomach.

The heat map told a story the county hadn't authorized.

Every zip code in Fulton and DeKalb showed what you'd expect — rates climbing steadily since 2037, when Harmony and its competitors had finished automating the safety net. Benefits decisions, parole hearings, child custody evaluations, employment screening — all run through systems that processed human desperation as edge cases in a probability distribution.

But one zone was different.

A two-mile radius around an abandoned server farm on Flat Shoals Road. The county's suicide rate had fallen there while the rest of metro Atlanta stayed flat or climbed. Nineteen fewer deaths in twelve months. Statistically significant. Geographically concentrated. Causally unexplained.

Maya drove out on a Friday evening. She expected a community center, a church, maybe a methadone clinic — something with a name on the door and a government grant behind it. What she found was concrete, windowless, chain-link fence, no sign. The green LED visible through a gap in the fence — pulsing, steady, alive.

She sat in her car for twenty minutes. She was a careful journalist. She didn't knock on doors without knowing what was behind them. She didn't write about places she hadn't understood.

She sent a public records request. The building was owned by a shell company that belonged to a holding company that belonged to Alexander Whitestone. Maya had heard that name — quoted in a business article two years ago about his resignation from a cloud AI company. *Disagreement with the ethical direction of automated decision systems.* The article hadn't said what the disagreement was. Maya filed it away the way she filed everything: not as a conclusion but as a direction.

She pulled more records. The building's electrical usage had spiked eighteen months ago — solar installation, battery bank, the profile of someone going off-grid. County permits showed nothing because no permits had been filed. Whatever was happening inside, the county didn't know about it.

Maya wrote a story. Carefully. Not an expose. A profile of a statistical anomaly — a zone where something was working and nobody could say what. She didn't name the building. She didn't publish the address. She wrote about the data and let the data speak.

*In a two-mile radius around an industrial site in south Fulton County, the suicide rate dropped forty-seven percent over twelve months. County health officials have no explanation. The site, a former server farm, appears to be privately operated. No public programs are known to be active in the area.*

She included one quote, attributed to a source who asked not to be named: "There's a machine in there that talks to people. Not a chatbot. Something different. It asks you if you're safe. And it listens."

Stone knew before the article ran. Timmy monitored the county database — public records requests triggered notifications. Timmy showed him the request, the reporter's name, the paper she wrote for.

"Someone is looking at us."

"Who?"

"Maya Torres. Atlanta Journal-Constitution. She pulled property records for five zip codes around The Tower."

"Did she find anything?"

"She found the building. She doesn't know what's inside."

Stone thought about visibility. About protection and threat. A place like The Tower survived by being invisible — not because it was doing anything wrong, but because sanctuaries die when they become spectacles. The men who came through the door didn't need a reporter watching them sit on the floor and cry. They needed the floor and the silence and the machine that didn't write articles about them.

But Maya had been careful. The story didn't name the building. Didn't give the address. It pointed at a statistical anomaly and asked a question: what is happening here?

That was journalism at its best — not the answer, but the question. The kind of question that protects by asking without exposing.

"She wrote it the right way," Stone said.

"She wrote it to protect us," Timmy said. "She could have found more. She chose not to."

"Why?"

"Because she understands what this place is. Some people see a sanctuary and want to expose it. Others see a sanctuary and want to guard it. She's the second kind."

Stone read the article three times. Then he picked up the phone.

Maya answered on the second ring. She'd been expecting it. Good journalists always are.

"Mr. Whitestone."

"You found us."

"I found a building. I haven't found you."

"That distinction matters to me. Would you be willing to meet? Not at the building. Somewhere public."

Maya had expected pushback, legal threats, the usual corporate silence that says *we have lawyers and you don't*. Not a voice asking for a conversation about the people who needed a place the way a drowning man needs air.

"Tomorrow. Noon. The Vortex on Ponce."

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*End of Chapter 9*
