The yellow headlights of the armored dining bus cut through the damp midnight air above Tower Bridge. Rain pooled around Duke Malakor’s torn velvet cape, reflecting the flickering streetlamps in dark, oily puddles on the asphalt.
Shen Qiaoqiao walked forward with steady, confident steps. Her black heels clicked crisply against the wet stone. She held a thick stack of vellum scrolls bound with crimson ribbon and gold-stamped wax seals. A small golden abacus hung from a leather strap at her belt, its polished jade beads clicking softly with every stride.
Malakor stared up at her from under Lin Mo’s shoe. His bruised face was smeared with dark, oily blood, and his broken fangs gave his mouth a crooked, grotesque shape.
“An asset-seizure writ?” Malakor spat, his voice trembling with furious disbelief. “Who do you think you are, little girl? I am Duke Malakor of the House of Sanguis! My family has held royal land charters in Britain for five centuries! No mortal court has jurisdiction over our dark estates!”
Shen Qiaoqiao stopped two paces away. She smiled with sweet, polite warmth, as if she were greeting a friendly customer at a bank counter on a sunny morning.
“Duke Malakor, you really should read the fine print on your own international banking agreements,” Shen Qiaoqiao said cheerfully. “You operate under the 1899 Sovereign Spirit-Contract Charter. That charter was co-signed by the European Dark Council, the Swiss Private Bankers Association, and the International Maritime Dao Tribunal.”
