They named the script "Cerberus" because it guarded the gates of their workflow. Every Thursday, instead of manual data entry, Luca ran Cerberus. It used the API key to authenticate with Lexoffice’s servers, pulled the messy data, normalized it, and pushed clean invoices, contacts, and payments into the system.

Below it: "The day we stopped typing and started building."

That night, he changed the API key. He added two-factor authentication to the Lexoffice account. And he wrote a new company policy: "The key is not a product. The key is a promise."

Felix stared at the generated string: lex-api-9f3k2d-8a1e4c-7b0f9d-2e5a6c .

Felix froze. "What did you say?"

Years later, when Luca became head of automation, Felix handed him a steel-engraved plaque. On it was etched:

It looked like nonsense. But to Felix, it was a sword.

Their client, "Elstar Craft Brewery," didn't just send invoices. They sent chaos. Paper receipts stained with hops, screenshots of PayPal transfers, crumpled delivery notes, and—Felix’s personal nemesis—napkins with handwritten "IOUs."