The dusty panes of the study window painted stripes across the worn mahogany desk. Rebecca sat perched on the edge of her chair, unfocused, lost in her own thoughts. The study was her sanctuary. It was lined with towering bookshelves overflowing with legal tomes. Their spines were worn, holding generations of Synoro's legal system. Beyond the window, the small, overgrown backyard of her townhome offered a sliver of green amidst the concrete jungle.

  She felt a restless energy thrumming beneath her skin, a coiled spring waiting for release. She wanted to hear from Ganjo, needed to know what their next move should be.

  Had Veronica Guzman made contact? Had she accepted Ganjo's offer?

  She thought of contacting Olt. However, the pragmatic, cautious part of Rebecca honed by years of navigating Synoro's treacherous political landscape, whispered that she should wait. On the other hand, a raw, visceral part fueled by the attack on her family, the near-death encounter with Alonso, and years of burying her true self beneath a facade of detached competence, craved action. It craved a chance to strike back, to reclaim some semblance of control. The thought of being a passive observer, a pawn in someone else's game, angered her.

  Unfortunately, focusing on that anger at the moment was useless. She needed a distraction. Her eyes drifted to a framed photograph on her desk – a younger, less weary Rebecca standing beside her father, Oliver Nader. The old man’s hand rested on her shoulder with a gesture of paternal pride that now seemed tinged with bitter irony.

  Rebecca thought of Ganjo’s words, of Veronica Guzman's request for intelligence. Intelligence gathering was in her blood. It was a legacy inherited from her father. He was a man whose benevolent intentions for Synoro were often overshadowed by his ruthless methods.

  Rebecca remembered the hushed conversations, the whispered strategies, the carefully crafted narratives designed to manipulate public opinion, to reward loyalty and punish dissent. Her father, for all his talk of justice and fairness, had understood the power of perception. And much of that, Rebecca knew, was thanks to Hadic’s influence.

  Hadic was a brilliant strategist and a master of social engineering. He had been Oliver Nader's sharpest tool. Like an architect, he designed countless schemes that kept the regime afloat, despite its inherent contradictions. Oliver, though often skeptical of Hadic's ambition, had recognized his value, keeping him close, using him.

  A thought sparked. The SDRA. The Synoro Debt Relief Act. Maybe Olt was on to something. When Olt had introduced the law to her, Rebecca immediately knew its purpose served darker motives. The details, however, she did not know. It was a law designed to protect government employees from financial ruin. Yet, it was never invoked. Why?

  Alternative solutions were readily available for the well-connected. Rebecca saw it countless times. Missing documents, falsified payments; the list was endless. It served its purpose. It kept dissent quiet and maintained stability.

  Was the SDRA a sham, a tool for control rather than relief? Was it a carefully crafted illusion, designed to garner loyalty but never truly intended for practical application?

  …

  Rebecca sifted through the debris scattered across her kitchen floor, remnants of her struggle with Alonso. Among the splintered wood and scattered books, she found the crumpled pages Olt had left behind – copies of the Synoro Debt Relief Act. She smoothed them out, squinting as she scanned the text. She’d dismissed Olt’s concerns initially, but now, with the added context of Alonso’s attack and Veronica’s request, intrigue ignited within her.

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  “Perhaps there’s more to this than meets the eye”, she mused.

  Rebecca needed something more comprehensive than these fragmented pages. She wondered if she had a copy of the SDRA in her own legal library. The worn floorboards creaked beneath her weight, as she walked to her study. Scanning the titles on her bookshelf, she searched for a familiar, dark green tome.

  Synoro Fiscal Code: Volume Two.

  She located it, pulled it free, and returned to her desk. The book landed with a thud, a small earthquake in the quiet room. The scent of aged paper filled the air, as she flipped through the index. Her fingers traced the entries until she found it. Turning to the relevant section, the brittle pages rustled softly. The SDRA, a dense thicket of legal jargon, filled the page. As she quickly scanned it, she compared it to Olt's copies. They were a match.

  Now, she needed data. Hard evidence was needed to support the nagging suspicion forming in her mind.

  Rummaging through a stack of papers on her desk, Rebecca searched for remnants of her research and lectures. She’d been working on a paper analyzing economic policy in developing societies, focusing specifically on Synoro’s unique blend of public and private sector partnerships. The Economic Bureau had fulfilled her request, sending her an unorganized stack of files and folders. Detailed data, including loan information was among this mess. Rebecca was using this data to study trends in homeownership, default rates, and the effectiveness of government assistance programs. Now, this same data took on a new significance.

  After frantic searching and stacks of paper sliding onto the floor from her desk, Rebecca had located the relevant files. Their edges were worn from repeated handling. She spread them out on her desk, the numbers and figures blurring before her tired eyes.

  Rebecca’s eyes traced the columns of figures, the dry data transforming into a narrative of financial hardship and systemic manipulation. A pattern emerged, stark and undeniable: nine out of ten of these government-backed economic stimulus loans originated from Sector 1 banks. She recognized the name of one institution in particular – Hooma Bank. Hooma was where Olt’s family lived.

  The Economic Bureau designated Sector 1 as the communities in need of the most economic assistance. These areas were plagued by high unemployment and low property values.

  Recalling lectures she’d given on the subject, Rebecca thought of how the theoretical models of economic recovery clashed with the grim reality on the ground. It made sense that a large portion of these loans would originate in such sectors.

  On the surface, the government was attempting to stimulate growth in struggling communities. Yet, something felt off. The loan amounts were abnormally high, far exceeding what one would expect for these depressed areas. Given the low property values and the presumably poor credit history of many borrowers in Sector 1, these loans represented an immense risk for any lending institution.

  Why would Sector 1 banks approve such loans, knowing the likelihood of default?

  A knot of unease tightened in Rebecca's gut. She pushed back from her desk, the chair scraping against the wooden floor. The sound was a sharp intrusion in the quiet study. Rebecca paced the room, her mind racing, the pieces of the puzzle tumbling in her awareness. She needed to understand this, to dissect the mechanisms at play. She would have to follow the thread of these inflated loans and see where it led. Considering the type of place Synoro was, something told her it would be ugly.

  A sense of urgency gripped Rebecca. She gathered the scattered papers, stacking them neatly on her desk alongside the heavy legal tome. She needed more information, more data to connect the dots. The Central Synoro Library, a repository of public records and historical documents, was her next destination. She strode out of her study.

  As she entered the living room, the gaping hole in the floor stopped her in her tracks. The sight reminded her of the danger she was in. Again, anger, cold and sharp, ignited within her. She couldn't afford to be cautious, not anymore.

  She turned and grabbed her coat, its worn leather comforting her skin. The Central Library held answers, she was sure of it. She had a city to save, a legacy to reclaim, and a score to settle. This time, caution wouldn’t be her shield; it would be her weapon. She stepped out of the duplex and into the bustling streets of Synoro. The city roared with noise, intensifying her anxiety.