Blood and Ink

The air in the back office of the Chen import shop tasted of stale incense and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone. Elaine slammed the ledger onto the scarred mahogany desk. The impact was a violent crack against the rhythmic, industrial thrum of the rail yard outside, where shipping containers were being shunted with a mechanical indifference that vibrated through the floorboards.

"Explain it, Uncle," Elaine said, her voice stripped of its corporate polish. "Vanguard isn't just a client. They’re the ones feeding the Trade Association the clearance codes to liquidate this corridor. My career, my promotions, the tra

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