In the dimly lit alleyways skirting the periphery of the Capital, where ambition eroded the very mortar between bricks, the silhouetted figure of a slick, rakish government agent, his face a map of secrets, stood bathed in the ghostly light of a neon sign, casting every shade of treachery. The transaction was not one of mere currency or gold, but of whispered permissions, slips that held the power to alter fates and redraw lines on geopolitical maps. Tattered raincoats veiled the identities of shadowy bidders, their pockets brimming not only with crisp bills but with dark, festering tidbits of leverage, the kind that could make or break even the mightiest. Every gesture was laced with tension, every exhale a risk, for the price of this trade was higher than any ordinary gamble; it was the sordid dance of power where the deck was always stacked and the highest stakes were always personal.