"Marcus," she said sharply. "Put that away." David saw the lighter open and understood a second too late. The manager held the check above the marble floor, glanced across his audience, and announced that the bank would not tolerate fraudulent paper. It was a sentence chosen for witnesses rather than for accuracy. Then he brought the flame toward the check, and the lobby seemed to draw a single breath.
The paper caught at its lower corner and folded inward with a sharp, dry sound. David did not move, partly because he was afraid any sudden motion might bring the fire toward someone standing nearby. Sarah called the manager's name again and stepped closer, but Marcus lifted the burning check above her reach. "Everyone should see what happens when someone tries to pass a fake instrument in my branch," he declared. He seemed almost delighted that the moment had attracted an audience.
The flame reached the printed amount before Marcus finally dropped the check. A few orange fragments drifted onto the marble, and Thomas Bell moved forward with a fire extinguisher that he thankfully did not need to discharge. Marcus planted his heel on the remnants and twisted, scattering soot around the white edge of David's sneakers. "There," he said, looking directly into David's face. "Problem solved."
David heard a sound from the crowd that might have been nervous laughter. The nearest teller had stopped working altogether, his hands motionless above the keyboard. For a moment, David could only think of his mother's first bank account, the teller who had assumed she could not possibly be depositing money of her own. His father used to say that expensive shoes could cover dirty feet, but they could not make a man honorable. David looked at Marcus's shining leather heel pressing the ashes into the floor and knew exactly what his father would have thought.
"You've destroyed property without verifying it," David said. His voice came out lower than he expected, and he paused to make sure the next sentence would be as controlled. "I need you to preserve the remains and call your supervisor." Marcus gave a dismissive snort. "My supervisor will congratulate me for protecting the bank from you."
A woman with shoulder-length blonde hair had started a live stream from beside the investment desk. Her name was Kara Jenkins, and before that Tuesday she mostly posted restaurant reviews and brief videos of downtown Chicago. She whispered into her camera that a bank manager had just set a customer's check on fire, then turned the screen toward the gray hoodie and white sneakers. Viewers joined within seconds, and comments began appearing faster than she could read them. Some praised Marcus without knowing a thing about the check; others asked why no one had verified it first.
Near the ATM line, a teenager with purple hair recorded from a different angle. Her older brother whispered that they should leave because the situation might turn ugly, but she continued filming when she heard Marcus use the phrase "your kind." She had been the subject of unwelcome