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... he corridor like a whipcrack.

The guards don’t hesitate.

Two armored men seize the trembling accountant by both arms. His face drains of color, his powdered wig askew, mouth still flapping in pathetic disbelief.

"Wait—wait, Your Grace, surely this is a misunderstanding—!"

I toss the ledger onto the floor at his feet. Pages flutter open like a broken bird. The ink is still wet from my annotations. Red circles, slashed lines—calculated theft. Years of it.

"Y ...

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