We start with my grandparents’ original business license.
Then the first zoning permit.
Then the annexation record that folded our block into a different district after a transit line was rerouted.
On their own, they all look boring.
Normal.
Exactly the kind of bureaucratic sludge that exists solely to ruin lives slowly.
Then Ishaan pulls up the exemption history.
And my stomach drops through the floor.
“What,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That was my face too.”
The Fierson Grill’s address has a permanent tax shield attached to it.
Not a ten-year incentive.
Not a redevelopment grace period.
Permanent.
Written under pre-Alliance law that should have expired three generations ago.
“Why,” I breathe. “Why would a greasy spoon on the wrong side of downtown have a sovereign-era tax immunity clause.”
Ishaan scrolls.
“Because it keeps getting renewed without being renewed,” he says. “Look at the authorization stamps.”
I lean closer, my pulse starting to pound in my ears.
Every renewal is signed off by a different municipal department.
Zoning.
Transit.
Infrastructure.
Utilities.
Different signatures.
Different bureaucratic pathways.
Same outcome.
Protection.
“That’s not how this works,” I say hoarsely. “That’s not how any of this works.”
He nods grimly.
