Another butt joined the pile in the ashtray. It was number eight. A telltale flicker suggested number nine was on its way.
Weary eyes on a haggard face evaluated the information projected in trid above the oaken desk. Modern tech was good enough to display properly despite the lingering haze in the room.
Knocks at the door, like this one, were common, but rarely welcomed. A raspy grunt was the sole source of permission for the interloper to come in.
Each word carried disappointment. Weary eyes on a haggard face closed, an aging mouth released a sigh. A calloused hand waved the interloper away. The door was closed.
Number nine arrived right on cue. A telltale flicker. Weary eyes opened and inspected the image. A fine young gentleman was rendered there. A murderer. A sociopath. A man with the right last name to not be punished in Las Vegas.
Weary eyes closed. A calloused hand wiped across a haggard face. Behind it all, a sharp mind illuminated. If there was a choice, justice was preferred. At times, only vengeance was in supply.
It would do.
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