Kenneth turned on her with cold arrogance. "Step away from the counter, Clara. I run this floor, not you. And don't lecture me on protocol."
He turned back to the old man, tossing the paperwork back across the desk like a piece of worthless scrap. "Step away from the counter, sir. We don't entertain vagrants with fraudulent claims. I'm calling security to escort you out."
The old man didn't blink. He didn't raise his voice or show a flicker of anger. He simply pulled his briefcase flat against the desk with one hand, reached into the deep interior pocket of his worn coat with the other, and brought out a black smartphone.
Kenneth scoffed under his breath, folding his arms across his chest. "Go on. Call whoever you like. The police will be here in three minutes anyway."
The old man pressed a single contact and brought the device to his ear. When the call was answered on the second ring, his tone was calm, resonant, and carried the unmistakable weight of a man accustomed to leading boardrooms.
"Michael, I’m downstairs at the main branch," the old man said quietly into the receiver. "Come downstairs. Now."
The line clicked off. The old man lowered the phone, holding it loosely in his palm.