The Corrupt Blue Line

The room was suffocating, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and paper left too long to yellow. A single fluorescent bulb buzzed overhead, casting a cold, uneven light on the chaos below—files scattered like fallen leaves, each one a story of ambition gone wrong. ​ Mark stood frozen, his hands gripping the edge of the table, knuckles white against the weight of his own mistakes. ​

Across from him, Ric sat calm and composed, his polished shoes tapping against the floor in a slow, deliberate rhythm. ​ Between them lay the evidence, a damning collection of truths that could shatter everything. ​