Office devours them.

Five bodies crushed in a closet posing as workspace. Shoulders collide. Breath festers. Miami heat strangles. Air conditioner wheezes, mocking. Chase, Ohio dreamer, flattens against wall. Notebook clutched. Shield. Watches his hero, Beckett, brace for the butcher’s block.

Desk a slab. Clean. Bare. Control in chaos. Beckett’s hands still. Waiting for the axe. “Twelve months.” Voice dead. “Twelve months of this.”

Defoe shifts. CPA. Sixty-three. Built his firm when fairness wore a thin disguise. Eyes sag. Seen this farce before. “You made that anarcho-capitalist’s campaign. Vowed to torch the IRS. They’re skinning you for it.”

Penny, ex-sergeant, aligns papers. Sniper’s aim. Knew Beckett’s parents. Watched him rise. Nothing to paychecks. Face fierce. Mother’s love. Jagged. “Your parents would’ve been proud.” Words fall. Grave dust.

Margin paces. Three steps. Tax attorney. Constitution’s ash now. Good men ground down. Jaw chews glass. “State’s eaten too many. Not today.”

Chase sticks to wall. Small-town kid. Portfolio. Myth. Beckett his star. Nothing to something. Gave Chase nerve to dream it. Until IRS turned ambition to a sick joke.

Phone squats. Black widow. Three boxes tower. Thousand pages. Legal shrapnel. Precedents. Violations. Year’s defiance against a machine that yawns. Rings.

Beckett’s hand pauses. Fifty futures hang. Employees. Families. Answers. “Beckett.”

Agent Bane’s voice slithers. Sixty-seven. IRS drone. Twenty-three years. Built nothing but a pension. “Yeah, Beckett. It’s Bane. Let’s wrap this up. I got dinner plans.”

Chase’s gut lurches. Monster? This clerk craving a burger?

“We’ve been at this a year,” Beckett says. Voice steady. Tightrope. “Accounts frozen. Portfolio seized. Can’t keep a bank account. What more do you want?”

“Look, kid,” Bane says. Indifference thick as grease. “You made that campaign for the guy who wanted to torch my job. You owe. Pay up. It’s just business.”

Defoe points. Boxes. “Agent Bane, we’ve documented seventeen procedural violations in your case against Mr. Beckett.”

Sigh crackles. “Yeah, great. I don’t make the rules, pal. I just collect. It’s the job.”

Margin’s voice cuts. Switchblade. “You’ve violated due process. Seized assets without court orders. You’ve—”

“Got a pension to protect,” Bane interrupts. “Your guy’s got a business. I got paperwork saying he owes. Let’s deal.”

Chase sees Beckett’s face. Myth dies. No Goliath. Clerk blind to the sling.

Penny trembles. “You can’t just—”

“Ma’am, I can do whatever I want,” Bane says. “That’s the perk of the gig. No competition. No accountability. Just quotas.”

Absurdity hits. Brick to chest. Chase reels. War planned. Charts. Laws. Truth. For a clerk itching to clock out. His dream—Beckett’s path, nothing to something—rots. System doesn’t punish success. It giggles. Spits.

Defoe pulls paper. “Agent Bane, you’ve violated Section 6103 of the Internal Revenue Code. Overstepped your authority—”

“Yeah, fascinating,” Bane drawls. “I’m retiring in six months. Know what happens if I miss my quotas? Nothing. Know what happens to your guy if he doesn’t pay? Prison. Ten to fifteen years. Trust Fund Violation. Fines. Two-fifty to five hundred grand, depending on how my steak tastes tonight.”

Margin reddens. “You can’t—”

“I can,” Bane says. “Federal government’s my muscle. You got… what? A thousand pages I didn’t read?”

Penny snaps. “We spent months on those.”

“Good for you,” Bane says. “Real cute. But your guy owes. Pay or he’s done. Simple.”

Chase stares. Boxes. Thousand pages. Truth. Ignored by a man eyeing salmon. Dreaming of a corner booth. Napkin on lap. Another dream diced for his quota.

Margin leans in. “You’ve exceeded Title 26. Violated due process—”

“Don’t care,” Bane says.

“Should,” Defoe cuts in. Voice heavy. Tax law’s weight. “Seizure violates Treasury Regulation 301.6330-1. Tax Court? You lose. Badly.”

Silence.

“What do you want?” Bane asks. Swagger gone.

“Follow the law,” Defoe says. “Crazy idea, I know.”

“Fine,” Bane mutters. “Maybe I moved too fast. Drop the penalties? Two hundred grand?”

“No,” Margin says. “You broke the law. We’re not negotiating from weakness.”

Chase feels shift. No begging. Teaching. Bane’s flunking. Hard.

“Fifty thousand,” Bane says. Voice tired. “Final offer.”

Beckett’s eyes flicker. Weighing. “I’ll need time.”

“Close of business,” Bane says. Bluff dead. Caught.

Line dies. Silence shifts. Victory. Rancid. Hollow.

Defoe leans back. “Twenty-three years of tax law. Not one page read.”

“He broke the law,” Margin says. “Caught him.”

Penny wipes eyes. “Fifty thousand. After all this.”

Beckett opens drawer. Hardware wallet. Bitcoin. Lifeline. “This is all I got left,” he says. Voice calm. “Kept us afloat. Company. Me. Whole year.”

Chase’s chest knots. Hero. Nothing to something. Survived siege. Digital rebellion. Cost too steep. Dream’s corpse lies grinning.

“So we pay?” Penny asks. Hope frail.

Beckett stares. Wallet. “Can. Should we?”

“What?” Chase blurts. Voice cracks. “You beat them. You won.”

Beckett’s eyes meet his. Year’s weight. Sleepless. “Love this company. My people. Can’t ask them to live like this. Not again. Been through this before. State’s indifferent. Always will be. Writing’s on the wall.”

Margin frowns. “Caught him. Pay. Move on.”

“Move on?” Beckett says. “Came for a campaign. Free speech. Building something. Not the first time. Won’t be last. I’ll start again. Different. Has to be.”

Defoe nods. “Productivity’s a crime.”

“I’m done,” Beckett says. Clipped. Final.

Penny bolts up. “Close? You can’t. People. Money—”

“Machine wants me dead for a video,” Beckett says. “Years of this. No more.”

Chase feels it crumble. Myth. Beckett. Nothing to something. His dream—same path—ash. System doesn’t win. It cackles. Toasts itself with cheap wine.

Team scatters. Penny gathers papers. Tears fall. Precise. Margin packs briefcase. Body bag. Defoe rises. Slow. History’s weight. Boxes stay. Thousand pages. Futile. Mocked by a clerk’s fork twirling spaghetti.

Chase lingers. Watches. Hero stares at wallet. Saved life. Not soul. Fifty jobs gone. Not markets. Not failure. Clerk’s whim. Dinner menu. Salmon or steak. Another dream gutted for a tip.

Phone rings.

Beckett answers. “I’ll pay the fifty thousand. But I want something.”

“What’s that?” Bane asks.

“You killed the last honest man in America.”

Line dies.

Miami hums. Cars. Laughter. World spins. Blind. Dream rots in a cramped tomb. Chase eyes wallet. Bitcoin. Last refuge. Free. American dream. Line item. Bane’s salary. Bonus for apathy. Tip for the waiter.

Shadows stretch. Office blackens. Clerk orders salmon. Dreams of dessert. Oblivious. Murder done. Beckett’s last word hangs. Absurd world. Victory’s a bitter jest.