Skritch woke up to the worst possible news: his ledgers balanced perfectly. No discrepancies. No overdue notices. No one even trying to hide a single copper.
He stared at the stack of books on his desk for a full minute, then flipped through them again. Voluntary overpayments had been rolling in for weeks. His deputies handled collections without him. The system ran itself.
"This is unacceptable," he muttered, pulling on his threadbare coat. The office smelled like old paper and ink, same as always, but today it felt wrong. Too quiet. Too... correct.
He spent the first day pacing. By the second, he started inventing loopholes. He posted a notice about a new tax on "excessive tool reliability."
The hammer in the corner of his office got its own invoice for "repeatedly driving nails without complaint." Skritch waited for complaints. None came. The hammer stayed where it was, stubbornly useful.
