Chapter 301 | The Banking Issue

Chapter 301: 301 | The Banking Issue

"How can I help?"

Dexter explained the restriction, and she nodded, extending her hand for his identification. "Your name?"

"Dexter."

Dexter paused and the sighed. "Dexter Ashford."

Her fingers stopped. It lasted less than a second, and then her smile returned. "Dexter... Ashford?"

"Yes."

She looked down at the card, then at her screen. Dexter noticed the change but did not immediately attach significance to it. People reacted to the Ashford name for many reasons—admiration, fear, curiosity, sometimes simple surprise that someone carrying it would be waiting in a public queue.

The banker typed for a while. "I see the account."

"Good."

"There are some verification requirements."

"That’s why I’m here."

"Of course." She smiled again. "First, we’ll need confirmation of your current residential address."

Dexter reached into his spatial storage and produced the property documents. Her eyes flickered toward his hand as he placed the house deed and accompanying paperwork on the counter.

"This is the property where I live."

She picked up the deed, read the first page, turned to the second, then back to the first. Dexter waited.

"The address here is different from the address originally attached to your banking profile."

"I moved."

"Yes, I understand. However, the original address is the Ashford estate."

"That’s where I used to live."

"Would you happen to have confirmation of the change?"

Dexter looked at the deed beneath her hand. "You’re holding it."

"We need to establish that the property is actually occupied by you."

He brought out another document, then the household registration information saved on his phone. The banker examined both. "Please wait while I check with verification."

She stood and walked through a door behind the counters. Dexter remained seated. Five minutes passed, then ten. He looked at the clock. He still had time. There was no reason to turn a routine bank visit into an argument.

When the woman returned, she carried a printed form. "Please complete this."

Dexter took the pen and filled it in. Name. Current address. Previous address. Identification number. Occupation. He paused briefly before writing ’Foodsmith and registered hero*l’. The woman watched his pen move, and when he finished, she read the form.

"A foodsmith?"

"Yes."

"Are you employed by an establishment?"

"I sell prepared meals through a bakery."

"Which bakery?"

He gave the name and location, and she typed it in. "And your income from hero activities?"

"I haven’t claimed any recent mission earnings."

Her fingers paused again. Dexter saw it this time—the slight movement at the corner of her mouth—but she continued typing before he could decide what it meant.

"We’ll need proof of earnings."

He nodded. That, at least, sounded reasonable. He opened his payment records and showed her the transfers connected to his food sales, along with the sales summaries he had kept. She examined them carefully—too carefully, considering how little information each contained.

"These are individual payments."

"They’re payments for my food."

"Do you have an employment certificate?"

"I just told you I’m not employed by the bakery. I supply it."

"Then perhaps a formal salary statement?"

Dexter looked at her. "I don’t receive a salary."

The banker gave a sympathetic smile. "I understand, sir. Unfortunately, without proof of earnings, we can’t release the funds."

He glanced at the records on the counter. "What are these?"

"Supporting documents."

"Supporting what?"

"Your income declaration."

"Then what additional document do you require?"

"A formal proof of earnings."

Dexter’s expression changed slightly, but the woman kept smiling. For the first time since sitting down, he looked at her without trying to make the interaction easier. "Define formal."

She blinked. "I’m sorry?"

"You’ve asked for proof of earnings. I’ve shown you records of my sales. You’ve asked for proof of residence. I’ve given you the deed and my current registration. Tell me exactly what document you need."

Her eyes shifted toward the door behind her—only for a moment, but Dexter saw it. "Given the size of the balance, further verification is required."

"Then verify it."

"We’re trying to."

"No," he said quietly. "You’re asking the same question in different ways."

The banker’s smile thinned. "Sir, please understand that we have procedures."

"I understood the first four procedures. I complied with all of them."

She folded her hands. "The account contains a substantial amount of money."

"I’m aware of that."

"And these food sales do not account for the entire balance."

Dexter became still. That was a genuine distinction—his bakery earnings and the system’s rebate were not the same thing—but the bank already had the incoming transaction records. Whatever the system had done to deposit the money, the transfer had been accepted and reflected in his account before access was restricted.

He leaned forward slightly. "Then show me the specific transfer under review. Give me the sender details your system recorded and the exact documents required for that transfer."

"I’m not authorized to provide internal verification information."

"You’re authorized to prevent me from accessing my money, but not to tell me what would resolve the restriction?"

"The relevant department will contact you."

"When?"

"I can’t provide a time frame."

Dexter stared at her. The woman looked back with the expression of someone who had reached a sentence she intended to repeat until he left. His patience finally broke.

"I want to speak to your manager."

Several people nearby looked up, and the banker’s eyes sharpened. "There’s no need to raise your voice."

"I said I want your manager."

"Sir, the manager is currently occupied."

"Then tell him a customer is waiting."

"If you continue disturbing other customers—"

Dexter laughed once. There was no amusement in it. "I’ve spent the morning bringing out every document you asked for. Each time I give you one, you invent another reason nothing can be done."

A clerk at the next counter stopped typing, and the banker lowered her voice. "Please calm down."

Dexter glared at the idiot in front of him and then at the Clerk next to the counter and spat.

"Get your fucking manager."

One of the guards near the entrance began walking toward them, and Dexter noticed him without turning. The banker did too, and a trace of confidence returned to her face. "Sir, we’re asking you to cooperate."

"I have been cooperating."

"Please keep your voice down."

"Then stop trying to end the conversation without answering my damn question."

More customers were watching now. A man holding a paper cup lowered it, and someone farther back whispered the Ashford name. Dexter ignored them and kept his eyes on the banker. "Are you refusing to let me speak to the manager?"

Before she could answer, a door opened beyond the counters. A middle-aged man in an expensive suit stepped out, wearing the relaxed smile of someone accustomed to arriving after other people had created a problem and receiving credit for solving it.

"Is there an issue?"

The banker immediately straightened. "Sir, this customer—"