“—they’re—” The line died, replaced by the hollow thrum of a disconnected wire. Kezia held the receiver away from her ear, a faint frown marring the smooth expanse of her forehead. Tomas, bless his well-meaning but utterly inept heart, was likely in a very bad way. Such an inconvenience. She pressed the button on the cradle, ending the call, then slowly extended her arm towards the bell pull beside her daybed. A footman, Vano, appeared within seconds, bowing so low his bald patch gleamed. Kezia simply pointed a perfectly manicured finger towards the front doors, then made a languid, circling motion. “Tell my husband his presence is required. And ensure he drives the roadster, not that dreadful utility truck.” In the Kolar Manor’s impeccably kept carriage house, Jaro Kolar was already moving. The frantic, broken static of Tomas’s last scream had resonated through the house’s internal communication system, a feature Jaro had personally installed for Kezia’s convenience. He didn’t need a footman’s summons. His hands, still smelling faintly of lavender floor wax, clenched around the timber wheel of his vintage grand tourer. Its obsidian lacquer gleamed under the garage lights, a pristine relic of pre-war luxury. He jammed the key into the ignition, the engine roaring to life with a deep, throaty rumble. He didn't notice the faint stirring in the backseat, a ripple in the perfectly draped silk throw Kezia had discarded earlier. A pair of golden eyes blinked open, assessing the vibrating chassis with mild irritation. Zivko, Kezia’s perpetually sleepy mountain cat, had a profound dislike for sudden acceleration. Outside the abandoned drydock, the scene was chaos. Tomas, his face bloody, was being dragged from the shattered phone booth by two burly men whose faces were obscured by wide-brimmed caps. Osian Hrubis Sr. himself stood a few paces back, a cruel smirk on his face, a gleaming pistol held casually in one hand. “Foolish little accountant,” Osian sneered, gesturing with the gun. “Did you truly think we wouldn’t anticipate such a simple, pathetic move?” Just then, the distant roar of a powerful engine grew deafening. A dark, impossibly sleek motorcar tore down the gravel lane toward the salt-corroded docks, its chrome grille gleaming. It didn’t slow. The aged, rusted iron gates barred against trespassers buckled and shrieked as the tourer smashed through them. Sparks sprayed high into the smog-choked air, and jagged pieces of twisted metal flew like shrapnel. The car didn’t even flinch, continuing its charge straight towards the phone booth. Osian Hrubis Sr.’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “Kolar? What in the blazes—?” Jaro didn’t hesitate. He swerved sharply, the tires spitting gravel, a clipped drift that sent one of Hrubis’s goons sprawling. The other, still holding Tomas, hesitated for a fatal second. Jaro slammed on the brakes, the car skidding to a halt mere inches from Tomas’s feet. “Get in!” he barked, his voice a low growl of fury. Tomas, dazed but seeing his chance, scrambled into the passenger seat, his bruised fingers fumbling with the door handle. Jaro peeled away, not bothering to wait for the door to properly close, leaving a trail of dust and screeching rubber. Osian Hrubis Sr., recovering from his shock, lifted his pistol. “Stop them!” he roared, taking aim at the retreating car. A sharp *CRACK* echoed across the wharf as he fired. Inside the car, a low, guttural growl rumbled from the backseat. Zivko, having been jostled from his slumber by the wild driving and now the jarring sound of a gunshot, decided he had endured enough indignity. With an agility that belied his considerable bulk, the mountain cat launched himself onto the back of Jaro’s seat, then sprang onto the helm. His paws, equipped with claws like tiny daggers, clamped firmly onto the polished wood. “Zivko!” Jaro exclaimed, momentarily distracted. The cat, utterly unfazed, let out another annoyed rumble, digging his claws deeper. The spokes whipped violently to the left. The carriage drifted, a graceful, unintended arc. The bullet, instead of tearing through the rear window, ricocheted harmlessly off the concrete wall of a derelict loading bay. And Osian Hrubis Sr., still standing in the path of the wayward machine, found himself in its direct line. With a surprised yelp, he was struck by the car’s front fender, not hard enough to cause serious harm, but precisely enough to send him tumbling headfirst into a towering, unstable stack of empty corrugated boxes. The boxes, labeled with fanciful names like “Quantum Chips” and “Aetherweave Processors,” burst open, spilling their contents: piles of cheaply molded plastic fragments, painted to resemble microchips, scattered across the gritty ground. Jaro glanced in his rearview mirror, a flicker of grim satisfaction crossing his features as he saw Osian struggling amidst the fake tech. Zivko, having completed his impromptu intervention, casually hopped into the passenger seat, nudging Tomas’s bloodied temple with his own. He then proceeded to lick a paw clean, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Back at Kolar Manor, Kezia was mid-stretch on her daybed, her silk robe shimmering, when twin whitewall tires screeched to a halt just outside the front doors. The sound was rather uncouth for such fine coachwork. She sighed, a delicate, almost inaudible sound. So much for a peaceful afternoon nap. Vano opened the door to reveal Jaro, his suit jacket slightly askew, a smear of something metallic on his cheek. Beside him, Tomas stumbled in, looking as though he’d been through a meat grinder. His face was a patchwork of bruises, and his pristine accountant’s suit was torn and stained. Clutched tightly in his hand, however, was a thick, leather-bound register. “My apologies, Kezia,” Jaro said, his voice unusually strained. “A slight disruption.” Kezia merely raised an eyebrow. “He looks rather… mangled. And what, precisely, is that aroma?” She sniffed delicately. “It smells of engine oil and desperation.” “Hrubis Sr.’s men,” Tomas croaked, his voice hoarse. He extended the ledger. “They dropped this. From a false bottom under the salt barrels. It’s their real tally. Before they had a chance to burn the place down.” Kezia, now comfortably ensconced in her oversized, claw-footed bathtub, water steaming around her, finally deigned to examine the stolen volume. Zivko sat on the bathmat, steadily grooming his flank, occasionally pausing to cast a critical eye at the water. The parchment was damp, but the dark ink remained crisp. Jaro had insisted on bringing it to her immediately, even offering to dry it page by page with a silk handkerchief. She had, of course, refused, stating it was merely a book and would dry on its own. Her fingers, still damp from the scented bath oils, turned the brittle pages. The crabbed entries detailed not just the fabricated investments but a separate, hidden column. It was a list of names, code-named “Prime Supporters,” and beside each name, a staggering sum. Kezia’s eyes narrowed. This wasn't merely a list of naive investors. This was a list of *beneficiaries*, individuals who had received suspiciously high, consistent payouts from the scheme, far exceeding their initial “investments.” A smile, cold and thin as a winter’s blade, touched her lips. This was the real Ponzi, the one designed to funnel illicit gains to a select few. Then she saw it. Nestled among the names of various obscure businessmen and minor dignitaries were several prominent figures. Not just any figures. These were the names of officials from the Federal Oversight Bureau, the very regulators tasked with investigating financial fraud. There was Vilem Horak, the lead investigator who had raided her manor. And his deputy, Otokar Svoboda. Even Commissioner Ludvik Pesta, the highest-ranking official in the bureau, was listed. Each had a substantial payout recorded next to their name, dated months before the scheme was even publicly launched. Kezia tossed the bound volume onto the cedar stool beside the porcelain rim, spattering soapy foam across the tile. The bubbles, once fluffy and inviting, seemed to fizz with a sinister energy. She had been worried about fighting the Hrubises. But this was far worse. The entire system, the very arm of the law meant to protect them, was rotten. It meant the police weren't just compromised; they were deeply, irrevocably implicated.

The Lethargic Rescue