Let’s Meet for a Mocha at Eleven
You know the drill. You wake up in a panic. You shower, you don the immaculate (and maybe a little uncomfortable) pinstripe suit, you eat a light breakfast, you battle the traffic, you arrive promptly at 9.15am. Just as your clones arrive and take a seat, you are ushered into a cool, featureless room, where three, remote figures shake your hand monotonously. One is the regulatory...
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