Scene 2: The Packages. THE BANKER'S BRIEFCASE He is the only one that still smells like money. Not gold. Money. Old paper, ink, sweat from counting too long. He had it custom-made in Milan. Real alligator. Lined with silk the color of a fresh bruise. Monogrammed inside: For The Books. It has two locks. Both need two keys. He carries both. He always has. Inside, not an empire. Left side: Gold coins, stacked in towers of ten. Every stack exactly the same height. If one tower is taller by a single coin, he will sit there until it isn't. He once spent 40 years of the afterlife moving one coin from one tower to another. Right side: Jewels, but not loose. Each one in a tiny envelope, labeled in perfect handwriting. He wrote down every source. So God would know he wasn't stealing. He was just...reallocating. And in the middle, hidden under a false bottom he thinks the others don't know about, a single ledger page. Blank, the last one he never got to fill. He keeps his pen ready. The ink never dries. When The Boss opens his empire, The Banker opens his proof. Look, it says. Look how clean it is. Look how it all adds up. But the numbers never add up to the one thing he wants: Zero. As in, debt paid. As in, free to leave the table. So his case stays open, candlelight catching all those tiny envelopes, making them look like they’re breathing. Double lock. Double weight The heaviest briefcase at the table, and not a single bar of gold inside that can buy him out tonight.