The rain. It wasn't water. It was black, oily filth falling from a broken sky.
Solar stood at the window, watching the soot smear against the glass. Aethelgard was drowning in its own grime. He didn't see the city; he saw a failing balance sheet. Every drop was a credit lost to the atmosphere. Every streak of mud was a debtor slipping further into the red.
The air in the office was too sterile. Too perfect. The filters hummed—a low, electric vibration that stripped the smell of the sulfur away. It felt hollow. Fake.
"Sir?"
Elias. The boy's voice was like a snapping twig. Solar didn't move. He didn't have to. He could hear the paper trembling in the kid's hands. Elias was a slum-dog who had climbed too high. Now? The altitude was killing him.
"The numbers," Solar muttered. His voice was a dry rasp. Like sand on a fresh wound. "No stories, Elias. No 'whys'. Just the 'how much'."
Elias swallowed. CLICK. A dry, nervous sound in the back of his throat. "Sector 7. Default rate is up. 18%. They're buying bread, sir. Not air credits. They're... they're starving."
Solar finally turned. His eyes were cold, grey marbles. "Starving? Choice is for the solvent, Elias. These people... they're stealing. My capital is fueling their biological failures. If they eat my bread without paying my interest, they are parasites."
He walked to the desk. THUMP. THUMP. His boots felt heavy. Real. He picked up the silver pen. It looked like a needle. Ready for an injection. Or an extraction.
"Sector 7," Solar whispered. He looked at the biometric data on the screen. Flickering blue ghosts. "They're still breathing. That's a transaction. If they can't pay in credits, we take it in hours. Refinery shifts. Add four more. Every damn day. Until the ledger stops bleeding."
"Sir... they're at sixteen hours already. They'll drop dead in the pits."
Solar leaned in. He felt a twitch in his temple. A pulse of pure irritation. He ignored it. "Then let them drop. A dead worker is just a liquidated asset. Sell the organs to the med-techs. Credit the family for the disposal fee. In this city, Elias, even dying has a surcharge. Nobody exits the system for free. Death is just another line item."
Elias looked sick. Like he was going to throw up on the expensive carpet. Solar watched him. A bug under glass.
CLINK. CLINK.
He flipped the gold sovereign. FLASH. DARK. FLASH. "Audit the soul, Elias. We don't manage money. We manage existence. Every breath is a debt. Every heartbeat is an interest payment. Do you understand? Or do I need to audit your lungs too?"
He sat down. The leather groaned. A dying beast's sound. He opened the next file. The Valerius Account. A big, fat fish. Ready for the hook.
"Send the notice," Solar said. His eyes were already on the next page, scanning the debts. "Breath-Grace is over. Rates double tomorrow. If they scream? Charge them for the noise pollution. Filtered air isn't for complaining. It's for working."
Elias backed out. Fast. Like he was escaping a fire.
Solar was alone. He looked at a fly on the glass. Dead. Legs curled. A tiny knot of failure. He crushed it with his thumb.
"No rest," Solar whispered to the empty room. "Just the audit."
He touched his cufflinks. Human bone. A gift from a debtor who couldn't pay his life-debt. He liked the weight. Everything has a price. Everyone pays.
The rain kept falling. Black. Heavy. Solar started to write. The ink was dark. It felt like drawing blood from a stone. He wasn't a man. He was a machine. And business? Business was perfect.
He poured a glass of water. It was clear. Cold. Somewhere out there, a man was dying of thirst in the refineries. Solar drank it slowly. He didn't feel a thing. He just adjusted his cufflinks, opened the next page of the ledger, and waited for the next victim.
The interest never sleeps. Why should he?