The Historian's Deception.

Previously

…Finch, seated behind his imposing oak desk, steepled his fingers. His eyes, usually alight with the spark of intellectual curiosity, were now cool, appraising. He was a man sculpted by decades of academic rigor, his silver hair perfectly coiffed, his tweed jacket immaculate. “A fascinating subject, Ms. Sharma. And one I believe I have illuminated with significant clarity.” “Indeed,” Anya conceded, a faint smile touching her lips. “Your narrative is compelling. However, I’ve come across some… discrepancies.” She paused, letting the word hang in the air. “Documents that suggest a different sequence