"Accountability."
Leo's head snapped up, his eyes fixed on the pothole.
There it was—ugly, dangerous, its mouth gaping wide, waiting to swallow the ankle of the next passerby.
The old man said they had complained a hundred times.
That meant City Hall knew the pothole existed.
But City Hall hadn't fixed it.
Why not?
No money? Too much red tape?
Whatever the reason, the result was the same: the pothole was still there, and it had caused someone to break their leg.
Suddenly, the look in Leo's eyes changed.
Ignoring the pain in his ankle, he grabbed the old man's hand.
"Sir, you said just now that you filed a complaint?"
Startled by Leo's action, the old man tried to pull his hand back.
"Yeah, I complained. What about it? I called the district office and even emailed that, what's it called, the city hotline."
"Do you have records?" Leo pressed, his gaze burning. "Those emails, any phone recordings... do you still have them?"
