The Correction #
Aulus breaks the philosophical frame to deliver his final, fatal claim: "Why pretend any longer? We are the flesh. We are the fire. We are the New Rome."
The room goes bone-silent. The Procurator slowly puts his wine cup down, looking at Aulus with a trace of genuine sadness. He doesn't look at his guard; he just snaps his fingers. SNAP.
A blur of steel moves from the shadows. Aulus is silenced mid-breath, falling forward as dark red wine and darker blood pool across the white tablecloth.
The Procurator stands, dabbing a red drop from his wrist. He doesn't look at the body. He looks at Gaius: "You have one day to prepare the arrears, Gaius. I would hate for the ledger to remain... unbalanced."