I joined the line. It snaked through velvet ropes toward the teller stations.

Ahead of me, a woman was adjusting her sunglasses. We were indoors, but she was wearing them. Chanel. I could tell by the hinge. She sensed my presence—or maybe she smelled the scent of “public transit” on me—and glanced back.

Her eyes raked over me. Top to bottom. There was no kindness in that look, only a biological recoil. She took a small step forward, creating a buffer zone between her silk and my cotton.

I stared at the back of her head. I calculated how many seconds it would take to dismantle the security in this room. Two guards. One by the door, hand resting on a belt, not a holster. One near the vault, looking bored. Cameras in the corners, blind spots near the pillars.

Stop it, Ren. You’re just here to check a balance.

“Next,” a teller called out softly.