While the rest of the city sleeps, a converted warehouse on the fringe of the financial district glows like a spaceshuttle cockpit. Inside, forensic linguists, reformed blackhat coders and retired revenueservice auditors stare at walltowall monitors that look like Bloomberg terminals on adrenaline. Every crimson pixel is a ledger entry that should not exist: a salary paid to a ghost with a Gmail address, a supplier born 36 hours after a bid closed, a fuel card that buys groceries 200 km from the nearest depot. By the time commuters pour their first coffee, 312 such glitches have been promoted to “cases”; nine public servants are invited for a friendly cup of tea; one middlemanager is already deleting selfies from a yacht he never declared. No press release, no sirens just the hum of machines proving that prevention can be louder than punishment.
