Three hours after the dockside assassination, in the two-story building of the Sea Blue City Customs General Administration, the air seemed to have congealed into a solid.
Robert Hurd, the Chief Administrative Officer of Sea Blue City Customs, now felt as though his head was splitting.
One of his piers had been blown to bits, his morgue had several more bodies, and these were not even the most troublesome issues. The most pressing problem at the moment was that his jail was crammed with military officers.
With a gloomy expression on the face of the big boss, the lower-level clerks naturally trembled with apprehension.
From the highest-ranked assistant to the lowest-ranked copyist, every customs clerk buried their heads as deep as possible into the files on their desks, not daring to breathe too loudly.
Inside Hurd's office, the heads of various departments under the Chief Administrative Officer looked solemn, all silently smoking, no one speaking.
