The Email That Shouldn’t Exist

FinPulso office. Day 3. 6:47 AM.

Stefan arrives before dawn, as is his habit. The office is empty except for the security guard, who nods and returns to his phone. The cleaning crew finished an hour ago. The coffee machine hasn’t been started.

He settles at the desk he’s claimed — a corner position with sight lines to both the entrance and the development area — and opens his laptop. The leather notebook sits beside him, already filling with observations.

One new email. Personal account, not corporate. No sender name, just an alphanumeric string that will probably resolve to a disposable service.

Subject: You asked the right questions.

He opens it.

The credentials you need are below. They’ll work for 72 hours, then rotate automatically. Don’t waste time.

Production SSH: [redacted] Database read-only: [redacted] Logging dashboard: [redacted]

Start with the transaction logs from October 15th. Compare what the board saw to what actually happened.

And Stefan — the Venezuelan team isn’t the real problem. Follow the money.

— D

Stefan reads it twice. Then a third time.

He pulls up the terminal. Hesitates for exactly three seconds — long enough to acknowledge that using anonymous credentials could end his engagement immediately — then enters the SSH command.

The connection establishes. A Linux prompt blinks at him.

He’s in production.

---

What the Board Never Saw

The FinPulso production environment is not what the architecture diagrams suggested.

Stefan spends the first hour simply mapping what exists versus what was documented. The discrepancies fill two pages of his notebook:

• Three services listed as “deprecated” are still handling live traffic
• The payment processing module runs on a server that should have been decommissioned in August
• Database backups exist, but the restore process has never been tested
• The “AI fraud detection” service is actually a Node.js wrapper that forwards requests to an external API — which then forwards them to the Venezuelan contractors

This last discovery is almost elegant in its deception. Anyone auditing the code would see calls to a legitimate-looking AI service. They’d have to trace the network traffic to discover it terminates in Maracaibo.

But Diego’s email said this wasn’t the real problem.

Stefan navigates to the transaction logs from October 15th. This was the date of the board meeting where Don Hernando presented the quarterly metrics — user growth, transaction volume, the numbers that justified the company’s valuation.

The logs tell a different story.

The board presentation claimed 47,000 successful transactions in October. The logs show 31,000. The presentation showed a 12% growth rate. The actual rate was 3%.

Stefan checks the git history for the reporting module. Someone modified the calculation logic on October 14th — one day before the board meeting. The commit message says “Bug fix: transaction counting.” The actual change multiplies certain transaction types by 1.5.

The commit author: A. Vega.

Alejo.

Stefan sits back. His coffee has gone cold. The office is still empty, but soon the others will arrive.

He has evidence of fraud. Not the gentle fraud of the fake AI — that’s embarrassing but fixable. This is financial fraud. Misrepresenting metrics to investors. The kind that ends careers and starts lawsuits.

The question is: who else knows?

---

The Morning After

By 9 AM, the office has filled with its usual cast. Pipe is at his desk, headphones on, pretending the world doesn’t exist. Camila is reviewing code, her private repository open on a separate browser tab she minimizes when anyone walks by. Isabella arrived at 8:30, looking like she didn’t sleep.

Sebastián doesn’t come in until 10.

Stefan watches them all, his notebook closed now, the evidence locked behind mental compartments. He needs to understand the relationships before he acts. Who is complicit? Who is a victim? Who can be trusted?

Laura brings him coffee without being asked. She lingers for a moment.

“You were here early,” she says. It’s not a question.

“I keep farmer’s hours.”

“So did Don Hernando, once.” She sets down the cup. “He’s coming in at noon. He wants a progress report.”

“I’ll have something for him.”

Laura hesitates. She’s deciding something. Stefan waits.

“Be careful,” she says finally. “In this company… not everyone wants the problems found.”

She leaves before he can respond.

---

The Accounting Anomaly

Stefan finds Isabella in the small kitchen, staring at the coffee machine like it holds the secrets of the universe.

“May I ask you something? Off the record.”

She turns. Her eyes are red-rimmed but sharp. “There’s no such thing as off the record here. But ask anyway.”

“The October board presentation. The transaction numbers. Were you involved in preparing them?”

Isabella’s expression flickers. Fear, then anger, then something like relief.

“Why are you asking?”

“Because I found the logs. And I found the commit that changed the calculations.” Stefan keeps his voice low. “And I need to know if this was Alejo alone, or if—”

“It wasn’t me.” The words come fast. “I found the discrepancy two weeks after the board meeting. I brought it to Sebastián. He said he’d handle it.”

“And did he?”

“He talked to Alejo. Alejo said it was a temporary bug, already fixed. Sebastián believed him.” She laughs bitterly. “Sebastián believes everyone. It’s his best and worst quality.”

“Did you believe Alejo?”

Isabella is quiet for a long moment. Then she pulls out her phone and shows Stefan a folder labeled “Insurance.”

“I’ve been documenting his activities for three months.” Her voice drops to barely a whisper, but her hands are shaking. “The inflated metrics. The consulting fees to Marco that don’t match any deliverables. The conversations with MiPago that predate any board authorization.”

She meets Stefan’s eyes, and hers are burning — fierce, exhausted, vindicated all at once.

“Every goddamn thing that made my skin crawl, I wrote down. Every lie that kept me awake at night.” Her jaw tightens. “I was waiting for someone who could actually do something with it. Someone the old man might actually believe instead of dismissing as ‘the girl from Kennedy who doesn’t understand business.’”

“Why not go to Don Hernando directly?”

“Because Don Hernando loves Alejo like a son. And I’m just the product manager — the girl from Kennedy who doesn’t understand how business really works.” The bitterness in her voice is old, calcified. “I needed evidence. And I needed someone the old man would believe.”

Stefan considers this. “Show me what you have.”

---

The Document

They meet in the Innovation Lab — the same glass-walled room where Camila showed Stefan her secret project. Isabella closes the blinds.

Her documentation is meticulous. Spreadsheets comparing reported metrics to actual data. Screenshots of Slack conversations where Alejo pressures developers to “optimize” the numbers. Bank statements showing payments to Marco’s consulting company that far exceed his billed hours.

And one document that makes Stefan pause.

“What is this?”

“I don’t know. I found it on a shared drive that Alejo thought was private.” Isabella pulls it up. “It’s a term sheet. For a merger with MiPago.”

The document is dated three months ago. It shows FinPulso being acquired for $8 million — barely half of the Series A valuation. Don Hernando’s equity would be diluted to insignificance. Alejo, however, would receive a $2 million “retention bonus” and the title of CEO of the combined entity.

“He was going to sell the company out from under everyone,” Stefan says.

“He was going to sell Don Hernando’s legacy for a personal payout.” Isabella’s voice is cold. “The old man put eight million dollars of his own money into this. Money that was supposed to be his son’s inheritance.”

Stefan thinks of the conversation in the boardroom, of Don Hernando’s face when he confronted Alejo about the MiPago negotiations. The old man had suspected. But this document shows the scale of the betrayal.

“Does Sebastián know about this?”

“Not the term sheet. I was afraid…” She stops.

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid he’d try to handle it himself. Confront Alejo directly. And Alejo would destroy him.” Isabella looks at the document on the screen. “Sebastián isn’t a fighter. He’s a dreamer. He thinks everyone is basically good. He can’t comprehend someone doing this deliberately.”

The door to the Innovation Lab opens.

Sebastián stands in the doorway, his face pale.

“I heard my name,” he says quietly. “And I think it’s time someone explained what’s actually happening in my company.”

---

The Dreamer Awakens

They tell him everything.

Stefan presents the technical evidence — the falsified metrics, the altered code, the hidden commit. Isabella shows her documentation — three months of careful observation, of suspicions confirmed. Together, they paint a picture of systematic betrayal.

Sebastián listens in silence. His hands are shaking, but his voice is steady when he finally speaks.

“I knew Alejo was ambitious. I knew he wanted more control. But I thought…” He stops. Swallows. “I thought we were building something together. I thought when he pushed back on my ideas, it was because he saw risks I didn’t.”

“He saw opportunities,” Isabella says. “Just not for the company.”

“And Diego?” Sebastián looks at Stefan. “Did he know? Is that why he left?”

Stefan thinks of the email, the credentials, the message about following the money. Diego didn’t just know — he tried to warn them.

“I believe Diego documented many of these issues in a report he sent you. Four months ago.”

Sebastián’s face goes gray. “The Technical Risk Assessment. I read it. I thought it was about architecture problems. Technical debt. I didn’t understand…” He puts his head in his hands. “I didn’t want to understand.”

Stefan lets the silence settle. Then: “The question is what you do now. Mariana returns in eleven days. You can present this evidence to Don Hernando, to the board. Remove Alejo before he does more damage. Or—”

“Or?” Sebastián looks up.

“Or you can stay silent. Let Alejo continue. Hope he finds another way out that doesn’t involve burning everything down.”

“That’s not really a choice.”

“No. It isn’t.” Stefan closes his notebook. “But it has to be your decision. Don Hernando trusts you. If this comes from me, it’s an outsider attacking a family member. If it comes from you — the co-founder, the CTO, the person who built the first prototype — it’s something else.”

“It’s a son telling his father he was betrayed by someone he loved.”

The words hang in the air. Sebastián stands slowly.

“I need to talk to Diego first. I need to understand why he didn’t come to me with this.”

“He did come to you,” Isabella says gently. “You just weren’t ready to hear it.”

---

The Contact

Sebastián walks to the rooftop — the real one, not the party terrace. The December rain has stopped, but the concrete is still wet, the sky still gray. He pulls out his phone and sends a message to the unknown number from weeks ago.

The response comes faster than he expected.

Sebastián almost smiles. It’s the first time in weeks.

---

Afternoon Maneuvers

Don Hernando arrives at noon as announced. He spends an hour in his office with Laura, reviewing schedules and correspondence. Then he calls for Stefan.

“Close the door.”

Stefan complies.

“My people tell me you were in the office at dawn. Alone.” Don Hernando’s eyes are sharp beneath their weathered lids. “Working on what?”

“Understanding your systems.”

“And what have you understood?”

Stefan considers his options. He could present the evidence now — the falsified metrics, Alejo’s betrayal. But Isabella was right: it needs to come from Sebastián. The family dynamics matter more than the facts.

“I’ve understood that your technology problems are symptoms, not causes. The real disease is organizational.”

Don Hernando grunts. “I didn’t need a German consultant to tell me my people are broken.”

“Your people aren’t broken. Your trust was misplaced.” Stefan meets the old man’s gaze. “You surrounded yourself with people who told you what you wanted to hear. Diego tried to tell you the truth, and he was dismissed. Camila has solutions, but no one asks her opinion. Sebastián has vision, but no authority.”

“And Alejo?”

“Alejo tells you what you want to hear.”

The silence stretches. Don Hernando’s jaw works.

“My wife used to say that about my son,” he says finally. “That I never listened until it was too late.” He turns to the window, looking out at the gray Bogotá afternoon. “Jorge wanted to build technology companies. I told him it was a waste of his education. I told him to learn the cattle business first, then play with his computers.” His voice is rough. “He died before I could admit I was wrong.”

Stefan says nothing. Some confessions require only a witness.

“I invested in FinPulso because of Sebastián,” Don Hernando continues. “He reminded me of Jorge. The passion. The belief that technology could change things. I thought — maybe this time, I could support instead of dismiss.”

“And instead you took control.”

“Because I was afraid.” The old man turns back. “Afraid they would fail. Afraid I would lose another son’s dream.” He laughs bitterly. “So I put Alejo in place to protect my investment. And Alejo…”

“Alejo is protecting something else.”

Don Hernando nods slowly. “I’m beginning to see that.” He sits heavily in his chair. “What would you recommend?”

“A conversation with your co-founder. Tonight, if possible. And then — depending on what he tells you — some difficult decisions.”

---

The Coffee Shop

8 PM. A small café near the Universidad Nacional, far from Chapinero’s startup scene.

Sebastián arrives early. The place is nearly empty — a few students with laptops, an old man reading El Tiempo, a bored barista. He orders a tinto and takes a table in the back, facing the door.

Diego appears at 8:07. He’s thinner than before, his beard longer, his eyes wary. He scans the room before approaching.

“You came alone.”

“You asked me to.” Sebastián stands, unsure whether to embrace him or shake hands. In the end, they do neither — just stand awkwardly until Diego sits.

“You look like hell,” Diego says.

“You look like you’re living in a bunker.”

“Close. An apartment in Suba. I have servers in the living room. My landlord thinks I’m mining cryptocurrency.”

“Are you?”

“A little. It pays the rent.” Diego signals the barista. “And keeps me connected to FinPulso’s systems.”

Sebastián blinks. “You still have access?”

“I built back doors before I left. Insurance.” Diego’s tinto arrives. He wraps his hands around the cup. “I knew something was wrong. I just didn’t know how wrong until I could watch from the outside.”

“The credentials you sent Stefan — that was you?”

“Who else? The Venezuelan team doesn’t know production exists. Pipe doesn’t have clearance. And Camila…” Diego pauses. “Camila’s too smart to get her hands dirty. She’s building something clean instead.”

“You know about her project?”

“I’ve been reviewing her commits. Anonymously.” For the first time, Diego almost smiles. “She’s good, Sebastián. Really good. Better than me, in some ways. She learned from books and videos what it took me years to figure out. And she didn’t have anyone teaching her bad habits.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about Alejo? Not the technical stuff — the financial fraud. The MiPago deal.”

Diego’s face hardens. “I tried. The risk assessment I sent you — there was a section about ‘financial anomalies.’ Revenue projections that didn’t match transaction logs. Consulting expenses that seemed inflated. I was careful because I didn’t have proof, just patterns.”

“I didn’t read that section.”

“I know. You told me it was ‘too detailed’ and asked me to summarize.”

The words hit Sebastián like a physical blow. He remembers that conversation. He was stressed about a product demo. He was tired. He told Diego to bottom-line it, and Diego said something about “concerning patterns,” and Sebastián said they’d look at it after the demo, and the demo came and went and he never followed up.

“I failed you,” Sebastián says.

“You failed yourself.” Diego’s voice is flat. “You gave away your company because you didn’t want to deal with the hard parts. You made Don Hernando CEO because it was easier than pushing back on his ego. You let Alejo handle the finances because numbers bored you. And when I showed you evidence that something was wrong, you asked me to summarize so you wouldn’t have to think about it.”

“That’s not—” Sebastián stops. It’s exactly fair.

“I didn’t leave because of Luciana,” Diego continues. “That hurt, but I could have survived it. I left because I couldn’t watch anymore. I couldn’t keep building something beautiful and watch it get corrupted by people who saw it as a vehicle for their own ambitions.”

“And now?”

Diego takes a long drink of his coffee. “Now I have evidence. Real evidence, not just patterns. Bank records. Email archives. The term sheet Alejo thought he’d deleted.” He looks at Sebastián. “Enough to destroy him.”

“Or enough to save FinPulso?”

“Enough to destroy him. Or enough to save FinPulso. Maybe both.”

---

The Proposition

“I want to come back,” Diego says. “Not as an employee — not yet. As a consultant, like Stefan. Someone with defined scope and an exit clause.”

“You’d work with Stefan?”

“He’s the real thing. I’ve been watching how he operates. He asks questions instead of giving answers. He respects the people doing the work. And he’s not afraid of Don Hernando, which is more than I can say for anyone else in that office.”

“What would you do?”

“Help Camila finish her rebuild. Migrate the production systems properly — not the cowboy deployments we were doing before. Document everything so that when I leave again, I’m not the only one who knows how things work.” Diego pauses. “And testify, if it comes to that.”

“Testify?”

“If Mariana decides to pursue legal action against Alejo. If there’s a board investigation. Someone needs to explain what happened from a technical perspective. How the metrics were falsified. Where the money went.” Diego’s jaw tightens. “I have logs of every commit, every deployment, every time someone accessed the financial systems. I can prove exactly who did what and when.”

Sebastián stares at his friend. “You planned this.”

“I’ve had nothing but time to plan. Three months of watching, waiting, hoping someone would finally see what I saw.” Diego leans forward. “You’re not a bad person, Sebastián. You’re just conflict-avoidant. You wanted to build something beautiful, and you assumed everyone else wanted the same thing. Now you know they don’t.”

“What happens next?”

“You talk to Don Hernando. You show him Isabella’s evidence and mine. You convince him that Alejo has to go before Mariana comes back — because if the board discovers this first, it’s not just Alejo who’s finished. It’s everyone.”

“Including Don Hernando.”

“Especially Don Hernando. He’s the one who trusted Alejo. He’s the one who signed off on the reports. If this looks like a cover-up instead of a clean break, the liability falls on him.”

Sebastián is silent for a long time. The café has emptied around them. The barista is wiping down tables, pointedly not looking in their direction.

“I have to tell him tonight,” Sebastián says finally.

“Yes.”

“He’s going to be devastated.”

“Better devastated than destroyed.” Diego stands, leaving money on the table. “Call me after you talk to him. And Sebastián—”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for finally listening.”

---

The Midnight Conversation

Don Hernando’s home is a penthouse in Rosales, purchased when he decided that commuting from the Llanos was no longer practical. The doorman knows Sebastián — the young man has been here many times for strategy dinners and Sunday coffees.

Tonight, there is no dinner. Just two men and a bottle of aguardiente that neither really drinks.

Sebastián presents everything. Isabella’s documentation. Stefan’s technical findings. Diego’s logs. The term sheet that would have stripped Don Hernando of his legacy.

The old man listens without interrupting. His face is stone, but his hands — wrapped around the glass he never lifts — tremble.

When Sebastián finishes, the silence stretches.

“I loved him like a son,” Don Hernando says finally. “I saw Jorge in him — the ambition, the intelligence, the hunger. I thought…” He stops. Breathes. “I thought I was getting a second chance.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for telling me the truth. Be sorry that it took so long.” Don Hernando sets down his untouched glass. “What do you recommend?”

Sebastián has thought about this all the way from the café. “Emergency board meeting. Tomorrow, if Mariana can join by video. Present the evidence. Remove Alejo as CFO and from the board. Offer him a quiet exit in exchange for not pursuing charges.”

“You want to let him walk away?”

“I want to save the company. A public legal battle destroys us regardless of outcome. We lose Mariana’s confidence, we lose our remaining runway, we lose whatever trust the team has left.” Sebastián meets Don Hernando’s eyes. “Alejo wins if we let him burn it down. The only victory is building something real in spite of what he did.”

The old man is quiet for a long moment. Then he nods.

“Call the board meeting. I’ll handle Mariana personally.” He stands, suddenly looking every one of his fifty-eight years. “And Sebastián — the German. Stefan. He’s earned his fee.”

“He’s barely started.”

“He showed me the truth no one else would speak. In my world, that’s worth more than all the management consulting in Bogotá.” Don Hernando walks to the window, looking out at the city lights. “Tomorrow we clean house. And then we build.”

---

The Night Watch

Midnight. Somewhere in Suba.

Diego sits in his apartment, surrounded by humming servers and the blue glow of multiple monitors. One screen shows FinPulso’s production logs. Another shows Alejo’s email — a tap Diego installed months ago and never removed.

A new message appears in Alejo’s inbox. From Marco Benedetti.

Diego screenshots the conversation, adds it to his archive, and opens a new message to Stefan.

He hits send, leans back in his chair, and watches the screens glow.

The game isn’t over. But for the first time in months, the right people are finally playing.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual startups, fintech companies, or CFOs plotting in encrypted emails is purely coincidental.