Three days ago, the email had arrived. Not the usual HSBC font. It was a perfect forgery, but the link was wrong. He hadn’t clicked it. He’d called the bank immediately. “Your Secure Key is compromised, Mr. Phelps,” the agent had said, her voice flat, professional. “We’ve frozen online access. You’ll need to register a new one. In person.”
The second was the banker, a gaunt man named Mr. Graves, who met him in a private office that smelled of ozone and old paper. He didn’t hand Arthur a new Secure Key. He handed him a clean, white envelope. “Take this home. Register it in a room with no cameras. No phones. The process is… sensitive.”
Below it, a new line of text: Secure Key registered. You are now authenticated. You may close this window.
The laptop screen changed.
That was the first strange thing. In person.