Polished shoes shifted away. Eyes dropped. Comfort protected itself.
The manager straightened her blazer. “Next time, don’t waste people’s time.”
The boy’s hands stayed open, empty, trembling. “But… what am I supposed to do now?”
No answer.
Then a calm voice came from behind him.
“Are you finished?”
The manager didn’t look up. “Sir, this doesn’t concern you.”
Footsteps moved forward—slow, unhurried.
“It concerns me,” the man said evenly.
The boy felt a hand rest lightly near his shoulder. Steady. Certain.
The manager sighed and finally looked up. “And who are you supposed to be?”
The man adjusted his cufflink, eyes sweeping the room once. “Before I answer that,” he said calmly, “may I ask why you destroyed a check that wasn’t yours?”
Silence stretched.
“That’s our policy,” the manager snapped. “And I don’t need to explain procedures to—”
“To the account holder?” the man interrupted gently.
A clerk nearby stiffened.
“I’m sorry?” the manager said.
The man met her gaze. “The check you tore was issued from one of my accounts.”
A murmur rolled through the hall.
“That’s impossible,” the manager laughed nervously. “Your account number would be—”