The bank was daunting; its owner, even more so. Aeseir was used to the clash of bodies, not minds, and despite her prowess on the field she felt ill-equipped for openings in the bank—until she saw the loan shark position. Frightening someone into paying their dues was certainly something she could do (ignoring the fact that she could barely convince herself to do the same).

She entered the interviewing room, her confidence mounting when she saw her client was merely an old man. Not even Crane's presence in the room could faze her.

"Thank you for meeting with me today," she said with a threatening grin, all teeth, as she slid into the chair across the man. "I'm sure y—"

"What?"

"... Eh?"

"Speak up, child," the man said, words slipping from his lips like frozen syrup. He turned his head to emphasize the message, the tufts of hair sprouting from his ears placed directly in her line of sight. He leaned closer. "What was that?"

"Your payment, sir." When he moved as if to speak again, she repeated, "YOUR PAYMENT."

"My pavement? Oh! Were you one of the lads interested in buying the old house?"

"NO, SIR." Aeseir had lungs strengthened by battle cries. Her voice seemed to shake the very room. "I SAID, YOUR PAYMENT."

(Another employee peered suspiciously into the window on the door—then ducked quickly away when they caught sight of Crane.)

Aeseir continued. "YOU'VE—" the man sat on the table, "—FALLEN—" he tipped his head even closer, "—BEHIND—" her voice was desperate now, wild, "—AND-I-MUST-INSIST—"

He was so close that the proximity was almost intimate, and she could see the hairs quivering from the force of the sound. She never finished. She left without another word.