The Auditor
Marv used to audit the Fortune ████. Twenty-three years. Corner office. Ergonomic chair. The whole thing.
Then in the summer of ████, he saw something in the books of a certain ████████ ████████company. Something he wasn't supposed to see. The ███████. The ██████████. The oat milk lattes charged to R&D.
He blew the whistle. They buried the report. They buried him — sort of. Now he lives above a dry cleaner on ████Avenue. One window. Three monitors. A shoebox of receipts he's still trying to piece together.
These days Marv audits ordinary people. Grocery runs. DoorDash orders. Target impulse buys. Especially the Target impulse buys. He does it for free. He does it because someone has to keep the ledger honest.
"You spent forty-two dollars on candles. Who were the candles FOR, pal?"
- You snap a receipt. Any receipt. Groceries. Amazon. That bar tab.
- OCR runs in your browser. Nothing hits a server until it's text.
- Marv reads every line. He categorizes. He judges. He writes red-ink notes.
- A noir evidence photo of your most incriminating purchase is manufactured.
- A 20-second voice memo is recorded in Marv's gravelly whisper.
- You get a Guilt Score 0-100. You live with it.