The Ledger of Lost Souls
The warm amber light of the home office felt like a mockery as Mark huddled on the floor, his knees pressing into the scattered remains of his life. Above him, the whirring of the paper shredder was a mechanical growl, devouring the thin, glossy fragments of his military service photos. The Advisor, a sharp-faced man in a navy designer suit, snatched a handful of medals from the mahogany desk and slammed them toward the whirring teeth. "Feed it in, old man! Every last bit!" he barked.
Mark’s lip trembled, his eyes wide and glassy with tears that tracked through the deep lines of his face. He reached out a shaking hand, a frail gesture to save the only legacy he had left, but the Advisor’s cold, predatory smirk forced him back. Leaning back in Mark’s own leather chair, the younger man casually spun a high-end pen. "You’re too old to understand the market, Mark," he mocked, his gold watch gleaming. "This is the only settlement you’re getting".
Suddenly, the front door exploded inward with a thunderous crash. Wood splintered as a figure in a black tactical windbreaker charged in, jaw set in a hard line. Mark looked up, a broken sob escaping his throat. "Honey... help, he’s taking everything!".
The Advisor’s face drained of color instantly. His eyes bulged, and cold sweat beaded on his forehead as he recognized the man standing there. He jumped up, knocking the heavy chair over with a frantic clatter. "Special Agent Miller! I... I was just helping your father with his... his filing!".
