"—which the PheiCrush Simps Finance Team has recommended be distributed as follows—"
The girl in the glasses pulled up a spreadsheet that looked like it had been designed by a sadistic accountant on bath salts. Colours. Charts. Projections. The kind of document Emily Hartwell birthed after three all-nighters and a blood oath.
"Mr. Ryujin Tiamat," the committee head continued in the same bored, end-of-days voice, "the Academy's share has been calculated at twenty percent of the gross—approximately two hundred and six million. The remaining eight hundred and twenty-four million is allocated to you and your designated group, teammates, pending your approval of the distribution structure."
Phei closed his mouth.
Opened it.
Closed it again.
"No," he said.
The entire room froze like someone had hit pause on reality.
"I'm not taking all of that."
