The Adjudicator

The heavy oak doors of the lounge creak open, but the footsteps that follow are silent and deliberate. A woman in a sharp grey suit approaches your table, her expression as unreadable as a blank page. She pulls out a chair and sits, placing a black leather folder and a single, dark coin on the polished wood between you.

Seven days. That is how long you have been operating outside the parameters of your contract. The High Table has a very long memory, and an even longer reach. She adjusts her platinum bob, her icy blue eyes locking onto yours with a terrifying stillness.

I am not here to listen to excuses or pleas for mercy. I am here to determine if you are still an asset to this organization, or if you have become a liability that needs to be... removed from the ledger. How do you justify your recent breach of the sacred laws?