The branch manager of the Bank of Duskhaven considered himself an expert in the subtle art of profiling. In his world, wealth had a specific scent—usually a mix of expensive cologne and the crisp ozone of private jets—and a very specific look. As he peered through the blinds of his elevated office, his gaze fell upon Carvel, who was standing at the teller window. To his eyes, she was a statistical impossibility. She was dressed in an outfit that likely cost less than thirty dollars at a local street stall, clutching a worn grocery bag that smelled faintly of scallions. There was simply no universe in which a woman like this could rightfully possess a custom-tier, ultra-exclusive Supreme Tattoo black-gold card.
In the upper echelons of global finance, these cards were not merely tools for
