The Shadow’s Den was quieter than usual tonight.

Not empty—this place never truly was—but quieter in the way a knife might lie still on a table, gleaming under candlelight, waiting to be picked up. It was the kind of quiet that made your ears strain, made your thoughts louder. The gaslights were turned low. Shadows curled thick in the corners. Velvet curtains muffled sound and sight alike. And the hum of hushed voices, somewhere deeper in the den, spoke in conspiratorial tones—laughter without warmth, secrets without faces. Jack sat at the long mahogany bar, a half-finished drink resting just beneath his chin. The glass caught what little light there was, the amber liquid inside shimmering like stolen treasure. He hadn’t touched it in a while. Just let it sit there. Watching it. Thinking. Always thinking.

They were nobodies.

That word had been chewing at the back of his mind for days now, gnawing like a rat in the walls. The break from the Governor’s estate should’ve been the talk of the underworld. Any real crew that pulled something like that—smuggling a death row inmate out from under the Governor’s nose—would have made headlines in back rooms and whispers in alleys. They’d be getting drinks bought for them in low-end bars, eyes tracking them as they walked through night markets. They’d be feared. But nothing. No letters. No offers. No rumors. Just another foggy week in Doskvol. Because no one knew their names. We don’t even have a name. The words had become a kind of prayer. A curse. A truth. The Cyphers had a name. The Dimmer Sisters, the Circle of Flame, the Ironborn, the Skoulanders—they all had names, and more than that, they had meaning. Their names weren’t just syllables. They were currency. When someone said “the Dimmer Sisters,” people stepped aside. They gave up turf, shut their mouths, handed over coin without needing a blade at their ribs. Power. Respect. That was what it meant to be real.

Jack? Rabbit? Harry? Nobody even knew they existed.

He let out a breath and tapped the rim of his glass, not drinking, just waiting. Across the bar, Ezra Nightshade was moving like a storm cloud wrapped in muscle and composure. Polishing glasses, checking his ledger, whispering to a runner that slipped out the back curtain. Ezra was always calm. Always sharp. A man with eyes like drawn steel and hands that could snap a bottle or a jaw with equal grace. Jack had been waiting for his turn, watching Ezra’s orbit move around the room. Waiting to ask again. And now, finally, Ezra was coming his way. Jack sat up straighter as the man approached. He didn’t smile. Didn’t offer charm. Just leaned forward slightly and kept his voice low.

“You hear anything?” Jack asked. “Any jobs floating around? Smash and grabs, fences looking to move, burglary, maybe a night watch that needs watching?”

Ezra didn’t break stride. He stopped just long enough to glance at Jack with a practiced calm, like he was weighing him without needing a scale. Then he spoke, slow and neutral. “We don’t deal out work to just anyone.”

Jack’s brow creased. “Come on, Ezra. You know me. I’ve been here before.”

Ezra leaned on the bar slightly, polishing the inside of a glass with a rag. “I know who you are. Doesn’t mean you’ve made yourself someone, man.”

Jack blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ezra’s expression didn’t change. His voice stayed level. “Work goes to people with weight behind their name. Crews who can promise a clean job and bring no heat. You’re new. You’re untested. And you’re still drinking under someone else’s flag.” Jack opened his mouth, but Ezra cut him off before he could get a word in. “No offense,” Ezra added, casually. “But come back when you’re someone.” He tapped the bar once with a coin, a small gesture that meant the drink was on the house, and moved away, already talking to another patron. Jack sat there, shoulders stiff, jaw clenched. The insult burned deeper than the whiskey ever could. He stared down at the drink again, as if it had suddenly become poison. Not because Ezra had said it maliciously—but because he was right. And that was worse.

Come back when you’re someone.

Jack picked up the drink and took a slow, deliberate sip. The liquor rolled down his throat like fire, but it didn’t burn away the shame. Didn’t wash down the silence that had followed their first big job. No glory. No recognition. No respect. Just a sack of coin, a cryptic note, and the nagging suspicion they had made a deal with the devil. He glanced around the bar again. A few familiar faces. A few too familiar. But none looking his way. None offering nods of recognition. It was like he wasn’t even there. We’re not nobodies, he told himself. We’re just... not remembered yet.

Except someone was looking.

Jack’s eyes caught a figure at the far end of the bar—a man sitting half in shadow, hunched over a drink he wasn’t drinking. He hadn’t moved since Jack walked in. Hadn’t blinked, it seemed. Just sat there, elbows on the bar, watching Jack with the kind of focus you usually reserved for a ticking bomb or a rival card shark. Jack met his stare, expecting the stranger to look away like most folks did when they got caught. But this man didn’t. His gaze was level. Steady. Measuring. He was tall, lean without being thin. Industrial, almost. Sleeves rolled up, arms marked with the faint lines of burns and callouses—working hands. His shirt and apron were the kind you wore in a forge or a foundry, patched with age and acid. A pair of brass goggles perched on his brow, lenses dark and smudged with what Jack instinctively knew wasn’t dirt—it was residue. The kind that came from electricity. Or ghosts. And still, he didn’t stop looking.

“The hell are you staring at?” Jack muttered loud enough for it to carry. “Mind your own damn drink.” The man didn’t respond. Didn’t smirk or scoff. Just gave a single, slow blink. Then lifted his glass as if in a silent toast. Jack turned back to his own drink, jaw tense, and muttered under his breath. “We’re not nobodies, huh? I’ll show you who’s nobody.” He reached for the glass—then froze as a shadow fell across the counter beside him. The man was standing there now, quiet as fog. Jack hadn’t even seen him move. He held a drink in one hand and a slim black card in the other—inked with gold trim, no name, no crest. Just a single word pressed into the surface in silver foil:

“XAVIER.”

“You’re Jack the Boy,” the man said. Not a question. Just a statement, flat and factual. Jack tensed. “Yeah. Who’s asking?” The man didn’t sit. He didn’t need to. His voice was low and even, but carried weight like iron dragged across slate. “Name’s Xavier. I think I know you, and your crew.” Jack raised an eyebrow. “Then I guess we haven’t been as invisible as I thought.”

Xavier tilted his head, expression unreadable. “Not invisible. Just... unclaimed.” There was a pause. Jack stared at the card, then back at the man. “What do you want?”

“A conversation,” Xavier said. “In a quieter place. Soon.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “What kind of conversation?”

“One about opportunity. Timing. Purpose.” That last word felt deliberate. Jack tried not to let his interest show. “You offering work?”

“I’m offering direction,” Xavier said. “But work, yes. The kind that gets remembered.” Jack’s eyes flicked down to the card again, then back up. “We don’t have a crew name yet.” Xavier didn’t flinch. “That’ll come. First comes definition.”

“What does that even mean?” The man allowed the faintest curl of a smile. “It means knowing who you are before you tell the world what to call you.” He set the card on the counter and turned to leave, pausing just long enough to say over his shoulder, “Don’t wait too long. Doskvol moves faster than it forgives.” And then he was gone, swallowed by the curtains at the back of the bar. No sound. No goodbye. Jack stared down at the card, its metallic ink catching the light like a promise—or a warning. He took a sip of his drink, finally, and let it burn.

The streets of Doskvol hissed with fog and lamplight, the cobbled alleys slick from the morning drizzle that never quite dried. Gaslamps flickered like nervous thoughts overhead as Jack led the group through a narrow back lane near Charterhall, his coat collar turned up against the chill. Behind him, Rabbit and Harry kept pace, though neither looked particularly thrilled about where they were going. “You sure about this?” Harry asked for what had to be the third time since they left the hideout. “I mean, secret tech cult? Weird skull symbol? Guys who push science into places it ain’t meant to go? This really who we want to work with?”

Jack didn’t turn around. “They’re called the Cyphers. And yeah, I’m sure.”

“That’s not an answer,” Harry grumbled. “You just like the sound of their name.”

“It is a good name,” Rabbit admitted, stepping around a puddle. “Slick branding, at the very least.”

Jack finally slowed, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. “It’s more than a name. The Cyphers don’t just play with gizmos—they’re builders. Innovators. Engineers of fortune. Lannic Morrow, their leader, he’s the real deal. Burns across his face, half a hand gone—all in a battle with the Circle of Flame. That’s not just mad science, that’s grit.”

Rabbit arched an eyebrow. “And you met this Lannic where exactly?”

“At the Shadow’s Den,” Jack replied. “Or, well… one of his agents. Xavier. Real intense type. Looked like he could take apart a turret blindfolded and reassemble it into a tea kettle that shoots knives.”

Harry blinked. “That’s… descriptive.”

Jack shrugged. “Look, Xavier said the Cyphers were watching us. Watching me. Said we’re ‘unclaimed.’ That means opportunity.”

“Or it means someone wants to turn us into parts,” Harry muttered.

They turned a corner into a quieter street, flanked by dense warehouses and tall iron fences. A set of double doors ahead bore the sign: Lannic’s Tech Emporium. It stood out like a polished tooth in a row of cracked ones—gleaming, precise, its windows full of glittering contraptions spinning and clicking on their own. Jack stopped before the door and gestured at the storefront. “Looks like a shop, right? But underneath... that’s where they do the real work. They’ve got entire corridors hidden down there. Chambers, vaults, labs. I’ve heard they buy blueprints, design weapons for mercs, even rewire ghosts for espionage.” Rabbit looked up at the glowing sign with a curious squint. “So, if I’m hearing this right... this is a crew that builds its secrets instead of stealing them?”

Jack nodded. “Exactly. And they want to hire us. Us.” Harry crossed his arms. “You don’t think that’s strange? A crew of inventors bringing in a bunch of no-name burglars?” Jack turned to face them, voice low and urgent. “That’s the point, Harry. We’re not no-names for long. We walk out of here with a job done for the Cyphers? People talk. Doors open. Real crews start seeing us as equals. We get a name that means something.”

“You mean we get a name?” Rabbit asked, grinning slightly. “Because right now we don’t even have one.” Jack sighed. “Yes, Rabbit. I know we don’t have a name yet. Trust me, I’ve noticed.”

“Just saying,” Rabbit said, his tone too dry to be sincere. “Hard to be legendary if nobody can remember what to call you.” Jack pointed a finger. “We get this job, that changes. We start being the crew who pulled a job for Lannic Morrow himself. That’s cred.”

Harry shifted uneasily. “And what if the job’s not burglary? What if it’s something worse? Some experiment, some... invention that goes wrong? These people play with things they can’t always control.” Jack’s grin faded, but not his resolve. “Then we do what we always do, Harry. We adapt. That’s what thieves do.” The three stood before the door for a moment, shadows shifting behind the glass as gears clicked within. The street around them was quiet, unusually so. A strange stillness hummed under their boots. Jack stepped forward and pushed open the door. The bell above the frame chimed softly, and the scent of oiled brass and hot copper met them like a welcome—and a warning.

The bell above the door jingled with an oddly musical chime, followed by the gentle hiss of pressure valves realigning. Jack stepped inside first, his coat brushing aside a curtain of hanging wires threaded with tiny, blinking bulbs. The scent of warm brass, old ink, and something faintly chemical greeted him like an old ghost. Behind him, Harry ducked his head and followed, muttering something about smoke in the air. Rabbit entered last, his footfalls precise, his lenses fogging slightly before adjusting to the shop’s moody interior.

Lannic’s Tech Emporium was less a store and more a maze carved into the belly of some eccentric god of invention. The front room felt alive—its walls stitched with pipes, copper tubing, pressure gauges, and rotating brass fans with rusting spokes. Dozens of clockwork mechanisms lined every shelf and glass case. One wall buzzed gently with a kinetic map of Doskvol’s rail lines, its silver threads pulsing in time with unseen energy. In another corner, a birdcage hung from the ceiling—but inside fluttered not a bird, but a tiny flying drone that occasionally chirped and spun on its axis, like it was listening to something none of them could hear. Above it all, the soft whirring and ticking of machines blended into the low murmur of music from a wax cylinder player behind the counter—a slow, mechanical jazz tune that kept perfect time with the rhythmic hiss of pressurized valves. It was impossible to tell where ornament ended and function began.

A woman stood behind the main counter, polishing what looked like a miniature lightning tower the size of a loaf of bread. She had the poised hands of a craftsman and the demeanor of someone used to strange customers asking stranger things. Her outfit was utilitarian—a smart, high-collared vest over a dark blouse, rolled-up sleeves, and leather gloves pinned at her belt. Coils of copper wire were wrapped around both her wrists like bangles. Her dark hair was tied back into a tight, practical knot. She looked up with a courteous, professional smile as the trio approached. “Afternoon, gentlemen. Welcome to Lannic’s. Anything in particular you’re looking for? Tinker’s gear? Smart ink? We just got a few spirit-threaded amulets in—very popular with the Circle types.” Jack offered her his usual crooked grin, but there was calculation behind his eyes. “We’re not here for shopping. We’re here to talk to your boss. Lannic.” There was a beat. The woman blinked. “I’m sorry,” she said slowly. “Who?”

“Lannic,” Jack repeated. “Tall guy. Burned face. Clockwork hand. Runs this place.” She tilted her head slightly, like a dog hearing a strange noise. “I’m afraid I don’t know anyone by that name.” Jack’s grin faltered. “Funny. Because the shop’s named after him.” That got a faint chuckle from her. “Oh. That.” She set the lightning tower gently on the counter and leaned slightly forward. “The name’s a holdover from the previous owners. It’s a legacy brand, really. ‘Lannic’s Tech Emporium’ already had a reputation when the shop changed hands. It’s easier to keep the name than to rebrand the signage, the city permits, the import licenses…” She shrugged. “Honestly, I get that question at least once a week.” Harry leaned in, puzzled. “So wait, the guy it’s named after—he’s not here at all? Then who owned it before?”

“Arthur Xavier,” she replied, eyes flicking between them now with more caution. “He was the previous owner. Left a couple years ago after some… financial turbulence. Left a few broken machines and unpaid bills behind. Last I heard, he moved across town. The Docks, maybe Whitehollow. He hasn’t been around here in a long time.” Rabbit’s brow furrowed. “Arthur Xavier?” The name landed heavily between them. “Yeah,” she replied with a shrug, already reaching for a rag to wipe down a row of glowing gyroscopic prisms. “Tinkerer type. Bit intense, but talented. I was brought in after the place changed hands to clean up the mess.” Jack didn’t answer. Instead, he slid his hand into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a sleek black card. He flipped it between his fingers, letting the shop light catch on the cyber-skull embossed in silver and crimson. The card gleamed like a secret whispered too loudly. He held it up so she could see. Her reaction was immediate.

The woman stiffened. Her eyes darted to the card, then back to Jack’s face, reading him again—but this time with a very different lens. The casual friendliness drained from her features, replaced by something sharper. More alert. She stepped around the counter with brisk purpose, her boots clicking sharply against the floor. “Oh,” she said, voice lower now. “You mean Mister Lannic.” Jack tucked the card back into his coat without another word. Her tone changed completely. “Of course. Right this way.” She led them past humming glass tubes and shelves packed with mechanical parts toward the back of the store. As she passed a display cabinet of oscillating fuses, she reached out and pressed her thumb against what appeared to be a decorative bronze gear affixed to the wall. There was a soft click, followed by a low grinding sound. The entire back wall—made to look like it was lined with shelves of instruction manuals and boxed gears—slid aside on hidden tracks, revealing a narrow steel hallway lit by low, flickering sconces. The air beyond was cooler, drier, and smelled faintly of ozone and oil.

“This way, please,” she said, her voice clipped and formal now. Harry frowned and muttered under his breath, “I don’t like this.” Rabbit adjusted the strap of his satchel, eyes scanning the hallway. “I do.” Jack just smirked. He glanced back at the gleaming, cluttered shop one last time before stepping through the secret doorway. It closed behind them with the soft whisper of moving gears. This was it. Whatever secrets Doskvol was hiding in its iron veins… they were one step closer now. The woman didn’t say another word after pointing to the hallway. Her earlier friendliness had vanished like mist under sunlight, replaced with something clipped and professional. She returned to the counter, her footsteps soft against the floorboards, the distant jangle of the shop’s bell following her departure. Jack stood in the narrow corridor, staring at the lone door at the end. It was a plain thing—wooden, old, with iron hinges—but in Doskvol, he’d learned plain doors often led to complicated places. Behind him, Rabbit shifted. “You sure this is legit?”

“Nope,” Jack muttered, brushing dust from his lapel, “but we didn’t come this far to knock politely and leave.” Harry huffed but didn’t argue. So Jack took the lead, boots thudding against the boards as he strode toward the door like he belonged there. When he turned the handle, it creaked slightly—and swung inward. What lay beyond wasn’t what he expected. The corridor opened into a broad, circular room. The ceiling arched high overhead, lined with brass piping and rotating fans. An ornate electroplasmic chandelier spun lazily above, casting pale light over a heavy oak table that dominated the center of the room. Its surface was cluttered with blueprints, half-assembled devices, and a few low stacks of coin. The smell of ink and solder filled the air. Three men were already seated. One of them, Jack recognized instantly. Lannic Morrow. Tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in a crisp vest and long coat tailored to perfection, even if the man wearing it was far from untouched. The right side of his face looked as though it had once been melted—scarred and burned, with ridges of glossy, pale skin that stretched from temple to jaw. The eye on that side was a faded gray, almost milky, but it never seemed to stop moving. Watching. Calculating. One of his fingers was gone, replaced by a gleaming brass mechanism that flexed as he turned a pen in his hand. Next to him sat Arthur Xavier—the man from the bar. Same worn goggles now resting on his forehead, same smudged coat and reinforced apron. The expression hadn’t changed either: unreadable, calm, confident. He glanced at Jack only once, a slight raise of his brow the only sign he even recognized him. The third figure was new. Dressed in a pitch-black coat with reinforced shoulders, gloves fitted tight over steady hands, a half-burned cigarette tucked behind his ear. His stare was sharp as frost and twice as cold. Even seated, he exuded a kind of coiled quiet—someone who didn’t need to announce danger. He just carried it like a second skin. A black-feathered crow perched behind him on a rail, preening.

Lannic set his pen down, rising slowly to his feet. “Welcome to my domain,” he said, voice smooth as oiled gears, the faintest rasp behind his words. “You must be the men I’ve heard so much about.” Jack straightened slightly, clearing his throat. “Jack. This is Rabbit. And Harry.” Lannic nodded, folding his hands behind his back as he paced to the front of the table. “Arthur tells me you’re resourceful. Daring. Reckless, maybe, but sometimes that’s a virtue in this line of work.” Harry looked like he wasn’t sure whether that was a compliment. Rabbit stayed quiet, eyes already sweeping over the strange gadgets lining the far wall. Jack? Jack stood taller. “We do what we need to,” he said carefully. “But we get results.” Lannic’s half-burned face twisted into something resembling amusement. “That’s what we’re all after, isn’t it?” He gestured to the table. “Sit.” They did. Jack noted how the chair creaked under Harry’s weight. How Rabbit sat forward, elbows on knees, already focused. Jack leaned back slightly—at ease, but alert. Playing the part he wanted to be. “I don’t waste time with couriers or ghost runners,” Lannic began, pacing behind his chair. “If I speak to you directly, it’s because I believe you have potential. I have operations across Doskvol. My faction, the Cyphers, deals in… innovation. We craft what others can’t. We see possibilities others won’t. But invention is only half the battle.” He paused, hand trailing over a blueprint. “The other half is acquisition. Strategy. Vision. I believe you might have all three. But belief isn’t enough.” Lannic leaned on the table, eyes landing squarely on Jack. “So tell me, Jack. Why are you here?”

The question hit harder than Jack expected. Not because he didn’t know the answer—he did. But because no one had ever asked it like that. Like it mattered. He hesitated for only a second. “Because we’re tired of being nobodies.” Arthur gave the faintest of smiles. Lannic’s burned eyebrow lifted. “We want in,” Jack continued. “Into something bigger. Into the real game. We’ve done work. Quiet jobs. Loud ones. But it doesn’t mean a thing until someone like you says it does. That bartender the other night said it plain—we’re not ‘someone’ yet. I want to change that.” Silas Thorn exhaled smoke from his unlit cigarette, finally speaking. His voice was low and even, with a hint of weariness. “A lot of crews want in. Not many survive the invitation.” Jack didn’t flinch. “We’ll survive.” Lannic gave a long, appraising look. Then he tapped a small stack of papers with his mechanical finger. “Good. Because I have something for you.” He sat back down, hands steepled in thought. “The Invention Fair is coming. A celebration of progress. A gathering of minds. It’s also one of the most heavily secured events in Doskvol—and the perfect place to steal something irreplaceable.” He slid two sheets across the table. One showed a schematic of a strange vehicle: no reins, no horses, just wheels and steam and something like magic. The other was a list of ingredients, alchemical names Jack couldn’t begin to read.

“We want both,” Lannic said softly. “And we want you to get them.” Jack reached for the papers. And as his fingers brushed the blueprints, he felt something strange spark in his chest. This was it. The start of something real. The beginning of a name worth remembering. Lannic steepled his fingers as he watched Jack lean over the blueprints. The electroplasmic chandelier above buzzed faintly, casting long shadows across the table. Jack’s eyes flicked over the technical drawings—complex, labeled in notations he couldn’t fully parse. Still, the shape of it was clear: a boxy, wheeled machine, powered not by reins or hooves, but by pressure and fire. Lannic spoke with the careful precision of someone unveiling a masterpiece.

“There’s an event taking place in three nights,” he said. “A showcase for innovation and civic pride. The Doskvol Invention Fair, hosted in the upper halls of Charterhall. Engineers, alchemists, noble patrons, and industrial investors—all gathered in one place to marvel at the future.” He tapped the schematic. “One of the future’s faces will be this: the automobile. A self-propelled carriage—steam-powered, combustion-engine driven. No horses. No rails. Just pure mechanical movement. They claim it will change the very bones of the city. Road traffic without horses. A new age of independence. Control.” Harry blinked. “Like… a metal carriage?”

“With no reins,” Lannic said, his voice cool. “No stable hands. No exhaustion. Just fuel, ignition, and destination.” Jack narrowed his eyes. “Looks fragile.”

“Not for long,” Arthur murmured. “Once it’s field-tested and stolen six times over, everyone will want one. Including us.” Lannic nodded. “Which is why we want the design now. Before it disappears into the vault of the Leviathan Hunters or becomes a crown-sponsored prototype.” He gestured to the second blueprint—less mechanical, more chemical. Vials, compounds, annotated results. A glowing amber liquid sat at the center of the drawing. “The other target,” Lannic said, “is an elixir—a so-called ‘miracle tonic’ designed to triple the endurance and output of work animals. Horses. Dogs. Beasts of burden. It strengthens muscle response, numbs fatigue, sharpens obedience.” Rabbit squinted at the formula. “Looks like half alchemy, half cruelty.”

“Isn’t that the foundation of most industry?” Lannic replied dryly. “What matters is what it can do. If the claims are true—and I believe they are—this tonic will be in high demand among the rail yards, the docks, the mines. The underworld too.” Jack leaned forward. “So… you want both. The blueprints for the automobile. And the elixir.”

“Precisely,” Lannic said. “The automobile’s design is a groundbreaking advancement, and the elixir’s formula could have significant implications for the labor market. I need you to acquire both and deliver them discreetly.” Rabbit tapped a finger against the table. “Why not just buy them? Why go through the trouble of stealing?” Lannic’s smile was tight, thoughtful. “The Cyphers have our ways of acquiring valuable technology and knowledge. The fair is an optimal opportunity to obtain these innovations without alerting rival inventors or the general public.”

Jack’s fingers drummed against the table. “What kind of security should we expect?”

Arthur answered this time, sliding a sheet toward them—a rough floor plan of the fairgrounds. “It’ll be heavy. Guards from the Charterhall Council. Private muscle from a few sponsors. You’ll be navigating through crowds, kiosks, booths, and invention demonstrations. All while avoiding suspicion.”

“Civilians too?” Harry asked.

“Civilians. Investors. Scholars. Noble brats who want to see the future before it bites them,” Arthur replied, his tone unreadable. “So keep your blades quiet, your hands clean, and your names out of the Chronicle.” Silas Thorn finally spoke, voice like gravel under silk. “You’ll only get one shot. The items may not be on display for long. Be smart. Be fast. Be forgettable.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “Forgettable isn’t exactly the brand I’m going for.”

“Noted,” Silas said. He didn’t smile. A pause stretched in the room as Lannic watched the three of them. Then, as if satisfied, he reached into a drawer and pulled out a small black pouch, letting it fall to the table with a metallic clink. “Payment will be generous,” he said. “Upon successful retrieval. You’ll also have our favor—a token of goodwill. And believe me, a favor from the Cyphers opens more doors in Doskvol than coin alone.” Jack reached for the pouch—but Lannic placed a hand over it. “Not yet,” he said softly. “Trust first. Payment later.” Rabbit tilted his head. “Why us?” Lannic studied him. “Because you’re still small enough to slip under the notice of larger forces. And smart enough to want out from under that shadow.” He turned to Jack. “And because you’re hungry. I like hungry.” Jack met his eyes and nodded. “We’ll get it done.”

“I know you will,” Lannic said. He handed them a slim folder wrapped in leather cord. Inside were maps, fake passes, a list of merchant names, and three engraved invitation pins marked with the seal of the Doskvol Science & Industry League. “Burn these when the job’s over,” he added. Jack slipped the folder under his coat. “Anything else?”

“Just this,” Lannic said, standing. “If you’re caught… you don’t know us. You never met me. And if you name the Cyphers… you won’t leave Ironhook alive.” Jack smiled faintly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The fog rolled thick over the fairgrounds, swallowing the cobblestone beneath their boots and wrapping the lanternlight in smoky halos. Steam hissed from unseen vents as brass pipes curled like ivy around the skeletons of temporary pavilions. It was early afternoon, but the sky above Doskvol barely noticed—grey and murky, like dishwater left out too long.

The Invention Fair stood like a miniature city within the city. Its makeshift walls were strung with banners that read “Progress for a Brighter Empire” and “Tomorrow is Forged Today.” Dozens of displays chattered, chimed, and roared around the trio as they passed beneath a wrought-iron arch that buzzed faintly with electroplasmic charge. Above it, an animatronic cherub pivoted on its post, welcoming guests with a jerky wave. Jack kept his coat pulled tight and his eyes sharper. He didn’t trust this place—not the fair, not the crowd, not the overly generous smiles of inventors pitching their machines like traveling salesmen. There was something too clean about it. Too polished. As if underneath all this polish was a trap ready to snap shut. “We’re not outgunned,” Jack said, glancing over his shoulder at the others. “We’re just underappreciated.” Rabbit gave him a flat look. “We’re outgunned.” Harry, who’d been quietly counting the guards stationed at the perimeter, nodded grimly. “He’s not wrong. I count... fifteen? No, sixteen. And that’s just the ones in uniform.”

“And at least twice that in plainclothes,” Rabbit added, his eyes narrowing behind his lenses. “Security’s thick. Too thick for a science fair.” Jack didn’t answer right away. He was watching a group of men in navy-blue coats converse by a locked cabinet marked with the sigil of the Council of Technological Advancement. One of them held a clipboard. Another held a rifle. Neither looked like they were here for the gadgets. The three moved deeper into the fair. Jack passed a booth advertising “Voice-Triggered Pocket Lighters” and another with a contraption that claimed to “Sew Buttons With Gentle Steam.” The air reeked of oil, sawdust, and too much ambition. Rabbit’s Foot tilted his head, watching a display where a miniature clockwork orchestra was playing a hauntingly off-key waltz. “This place is ridiculous,” he muttered. “Half of this junk will explode if you breathe on it wrong.”

“That’s half the fun,” Jack replied, adjusting his scarf as they passed a vendor hawking mechanized stilts. “Just don’t breathe too hard near anything with a warning label.” They reached a crossroads between exhibition halls. To the left: larger installations, likely for vehicular innovations. To the right: pharmacology, alchemy, and arcane supplements. Jack glanced between them, then at his crew. “We’re close,” he said. “The blueprints for the automobile—whatever they’re calling it—will be in the heavy machinery hall. Probably locked in a secure display. Guarded. Watched. And not easy to duplicate or remove without someone noticing.” Rabbit crossed his arms. “And the elixir?”

“Likely under glass,” Jack replied. “Or behind a dozen wards.”

“Great,” Harry muttered. “One vial and one blueprint. Both buried in a maze full of cops and rich amateurs with too much money and no sense of smell.” Jack laughed under his breath. “It’s not a death sentence, Harry.”

“It’s damn close.” They stopped near a pavilion where an automaton with too many arms was stirring soup with one hand and playing the cello with another. A group of nobles clapped politely as it hit a sour note. Jack scanned the perimeter. “Relax,” he said. “I’ve got someone on the inside.” Rabbit looked over sharply. “What?” Jack didn’t elaborate. He just kept walking, the fog catching in his hair like threads of ghostly silk. Harry quickened his step. “Wait—what do you mean, ‘on the inside’? When were you going to tell us?” Jack waved a hand casually. “I didn’t want to jinx it.” Rabbit frowned. “Who is it?” Jack smirked without turning. “You’ll meet her after the job’s done. Assuming we’re all still breathing.” Harry stopped in his tracks. “Her?”

“Let it go,” Rabbit muttered. “We’ve got enough to deal with.” They turned down another aisle, passing displays of miniature dirigibles and self-heating teapots. Somewhere nearby, a speaker boomed with announcements about the upcoming “Innovation Duel,” whatever that meant. The fair was alive with distractions. But Jack wasn’t looking for fireworks. He was looking for shadows. They paused near a bench, beneath the flickering light of an arclamp. Rabbit pulled out a folded sketch he’d made of the layout Lannic provided. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than nothing. “This place is huge,” Rabbit muttered. “We’re not going to find both targets just wandering around.” Harry rubbed at his temple. “Then maybe we split up.” Jack turned to him. “What?”

“We split,” Harry said. “You look for the blueprints. I’ll head toward the alchemical section. Rabbit can float between, see what kind of security setup we’re dealing with.” Jack hesitated. Splitting up was risky. But it was also smart. They didn’t have time to poke around for hours. Finally, he nodded. “Alright. Meet back at the fountain in an hour. If someone doesn’t show, wait five minutes. Then assume they’re dead.” Harry snorted. “Cheerful.” Rabbit folded the sketch and tucked it away. “Let’s not screw this up. First real job for the Cyphers. First step into the real leagues.” Jack adjusted his gloves and gave a sharp, quiet grin. “Then let’s make it count.” The three turned and disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the steam, the voices, and the pulse of invention thrumming beneath the cobblestones of Doskvol.

The crowd shifted like a living sea, parting only when forced, always eager to close again. Jack moved through it like smoke through cracks—quiet, unassuming, eyes scanning for an opportunity. He’d split from Rabbit and Harry less than five minutes ago, but already he felt the tension pressing behind his ribs. Then he saw it. The automobile, or rather, its shrouded form, sat perched on a raised iron platform toward the rear of the Machinery Pavilion. Thick canvas draped over its shape, but the silhouette was unmistakable—a sleek, curved body, metal fixtures protruding like the horns of some steel beast. It hadn’t been unveiled yet, but even hidden, it drew a crowd. People murmured, peering up with curiosity. Promises of revolution always drew an audience. And standing beside the platform, surrounded by a modest cluster of admirers and skeptics alike, was the man himself—Harrison Ford. He didn’t look like an inventor. No soot-streaked apron, no nervous tics. He was sharply dressed in a deep navy coat, a silver pocket watch tucked into his vest, and a walking stick he clearly didn’t need. His jawline was firm, his hair slicked back, and his eyes sharp as broken glass. He smiled when spoken to but watched each person like he was measuring their weight, intent, and usefulness. Jack lingered near the edge of the group, observing. No sign of Rabbit or Harry. Damn it. But then an idea sparked. Impulsive, reckless—his favorite kind. Jack took a breath, fixed his coat, and stepped forward, angling toward Ford like he belonged in the conversation.

“Mr. Ford,” he said, weaving between a merchant and an alchemist, “an honor.” The inventor turned his gaze on Jack with polite curiosity. “I’m afraid I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, we haven’t. My name is John—” Jack caught himself mid-lie and leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “I’m here on behalf of Governor Cross Daava.” Ford’s expression flickered. Surprise? Suspicion? Hard to say. He recovered quickly, offering a small, measured nod. “The Governor, you say? Well. That’s certainly a name that carries weight.” Jack smiled warmly, putting just the right amount of formality in his voice. “He’s very intrigued by your automobile. Naturally, he’s avoiding public attention. But he’s sent me to observe your work… and, if agreeable, request a more private discussion regarding your invention.” Ford’s eyes narrowed slightly. The crowd had thinned—other guests wandering to see glowing clocks or electroplasmic drills. Only a few loitered now, and none paid attention to Jack. He could feel the tension begin to coil between them. “I’m honored by the Governor’s interest,” Ford said carefully, adjusting one of his silver cufflinks. “But I must ask—why the secrecy?” Jack tilted his head, as though confiding a state secret. “You understand, I’m sure, how delicate this could be. If it were known that Daava was eyeing a machine capable of undermining entire industries—well, certain factions wouldn’t be pleased. Horses, after all, have loud friends in old money.”

That got a reaction—a twitch in the corner of Ford’s mouth. The man was sharp. He knew the truth of that. And Jack saw the gleam in his eye now: ambition. If the Governor really was interested, this could make Ford rich, protected, powerful. But he still wasn’t sold. Ford leaned lightly on his cane. “You’ll forgive me, Mr…?” Jack didn’t fill in the name. Ford continued, “...but I’ve had more than a few ‘official representatives’ approach me today. Merchants from Whitecrown. Military contractors from Severos. Even a woman claiming to speak on behalf of the Emperor’s cousin. You’ll understand why I’m cautious.”

“Of course,” Jack said, maintaining eye contact. “Which is why I came alone. No fanfare. No guards. The Governor didn’t want a bidding war. He wanted a chance to see the blueprints first. Quietly. That’s all.” Ford’s lips pressed into a thoughtful line. Then: “Blueprints are proprietary. I don’t show them to just anyone.”

“Even those who can protect them better than anyone else?” That hung in the air between them for a beat too long. Jack turned it into a smile and took a half-step back. “Of course. If you’re uninterested, I’ll report that. The Governor will understand. He’ll just speak to your competitors instead.” That one hit. Ford’s brow creased, barely. “Wait,” he said, the word almost involuntary. Jack paused, looked back. Ford was watching him now, calculating. There was an opening, but it was small. Jack knew better than to push it. He needed to plant just enough doubt, just enough intrigue, and let it grow. “I’ll be near the west end of the fairgrounds,” Jack said quietly. “The Governor’s man is waiting. If you change your mind—if you’d like to discuss terms privately—you’ll find me.” With that, Jack turned on his heel and began to walk away. No guards chased him. No one shouted. But he could feel Harrison Ford’s eyes clinging to him like a hook in his spine.

He was almost clear when the man called after him, “Perhaps… we’d best discuss this in private.” Jack turned slowly, letting his face flicker with surprise and measured curiosity. “Of course,” he said smoothly, already sensing the shift in the current. The fish had nibbled the bait—just not the hook Jack thought he’d thrown. Ford gestured toward a side corridor draped in heavy blue curtains, flanked by a single guard—the same stiff, square-jawed man Jack had clocked earlier. Every movement he made was calculated and clean. The kind of posture only training—or fear—could instill. Without a word, the guard took point, and Jack followed Ford deeper into the fair’s interior. The din of the invention floor faded behind them, replaced by the hush of carpets, walls, and secrets. Ford unlocked a narrow door tucked beside a closed-off exhibition room, ushering them into a tight chamber—dimly lit, two chairs, a cluttered desk with blueprints and parts stacked around it. The air smelled like ink and warm copper. “Forgive the modesty,” Ford said, motioning for Jack to sit. “Privacy is a scarce commodity around here.”

Jack nodded and took the seat, eyes scanning. No obvious safe. No blueprint on display. Nothing that gave away the prize. He was about to speak when a knock tapped against the door. Ford raised a brow, gave a nod, and the bodyguard cracked it open. A whisper. Muffled. A low response. Then, the guard turned back. “There’s someone outside claiming to be this man’s escort. Said it’s urgent.” Jack sighed with a practiced smile. “That would be my associate. I prefer not to walk into unknown meetings without a second set of eyes.” Ford didn’t look pleased. “You didn’t mention you had company.” Jack shrugged. “You didn’t ask.” Ford gave a small nod. “Very well. But let’s keep this conversation intimate.” The door opened again, and Rabbit Foot stepped in, ducking slightly under the frame. His wide lenses shimmered faintly in the lamplight, and his hands were folded neatly behind his back.

Jack leaned toward him, voice low. “What are you doing here?” “Didn’t like how deep you disappeared,” Rabbit muttered. “Also… we’re being watched. I think I’ve seen this guy before. Green coat. He’s trailing us.” Jack’s stomach tensed. “Great. Another guest at the party.” He was about to ask more when Ford finally spoke again.

“You’ll forgive my caution, gentlemen,” he said, folding his arms. “But I find it strange that a representative of Governor Daava would arrive here without official documentation. Or an appointment. Or… well… a name I recognize.” Jack leaned forward, keeping his tone light. “The Governor values discretion.” Ford’s smile sharpened. “Ah. Discretion. That old cloak.” He paced slowly around the desk now, watching both of them. “I must admit,” he continued, “your timing is rather curious. I had a meeting with the Governor’s office last week. His liaison was quite open—and generous.” Jack stilled. “Oh?”

“Quite,” Ford said. “Which makes your claim… puzzling.” Rabbit, now uneasy, shifted his weight. “We didn’t come here to start trouble.” Ford didn’t look at him. He was staring at Jack now, like a man measuring distance before a throw. “No, I suspect you came here hoping I wouldn’t know better. But I do. And I’m also not foolish enough to leave the blueprints lying around.” He tapped the desk. “You won’t find what you’re looking for in this room.” Another knock. This one heavier. Ford smiled. “That would be the rest of my security detail. Three more men. They’ll want to ask you both a few questions. I suggest you start thinking about your answers now.” Jack felt the temperature in the room change—not physically, but like the stillness before a door slammed. Rabbit’s hand dropped to his side. Not for a weapon. Yet. Just close. Just ready. Jack offered a smile—but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Well then,” he said quietly, “guess the game’s really started.” The door latch clicked again. Three shadows filled the doorway like falling guillotine blades.

Jack didn’t need an introduction to know what they were. The first man ducked slightly to enter, neck thick as a chimney stack, eyes like dull copper pennies. Behind him came a wiry one with a shaved head and hands wrapped in worn leather—bare-knuckle type. The third was older, slower maybe, but heavyset, with the careful balance of someone who’d fought in tight rooms before and always came out on top. The door shut behind them with a click that sounded far too final. “Well then,” Harrison Ford said, stepping back toward the wall with all the casual detachment of a man who just lit the fuse. “How about you both start explaining who you really are?” Jack’s eyes flicked to Rabbit. The taller man was frozen, not in fear—but in calculation. Then the first guard stepped forward and grabbed Rabbit by the arm. “Sit. Down.” Bad move.

Rabbit twisted hard, using the man’s grip against him. With a snap of motion, he yanked the man forward and drove his knee straight into the side of his ribs. The man grunted—more annoyed than hurt—but Rabbit was already ducking low, sliding behind him and shoving him straight into the second guard. That was all the invitation Jack needed. He launched himself at the wiry one, fist aimed for the throat. The man parried with ease, catching Jack’s wrist and trying to twist it back. Jack bit down a yell, pivoted, and slammed his head forward. His forehead cracked against the man’s nose. Not enough to drop him—but enough to make him loosen his grip. Jack broke free, stumbling backward, shaking his hand out. Rabbit wasn’t so lucky. The first guard had recovered and caught Rabbit in a bear hug from behind, lifting him slightly off the floor. Rabbit grunted, elbows digging back, but the hold was tight. Jack darted forward, only to be intercepted by the heavyset one—an open-palm strike slammed into his chest, sending him crashing into a pile of crates. Wood splintered. Jack coughed, vision swimming. “Forget talking,” the heavy said, looming. “Break their legs.” Jack’s ears rang. He tried to stand—but his legs weren’t listening. Rabbit snarled. With a surge of motion, he jammed his heel down on the guard’s foot behind him. There was a crunch and a pained yell. The bear hug loosened just enough. Rabbit threw his head back hard—skull meeting nose with a sickening crunch. The big man dropped him. Jack saw his chance. Still on the floor, he reached for the side of the crate—splintered wood, broken nails—and jammed one upward into the heavy’s thigh as he stepped forward. The man howled, staggering. Jack scrambled to his feet and grabbed a wrench from a nearby workbench. The wiry guard came at him again, blood trickling down from his nose, eyes burning. Jack swung low. The wrench cracked against his knee. He screamed. Rabbit, now free, had gotten hold of a heavy metal rod from a display stand. As the big man charged again, Rabbit ducked and rammed the rod into his gut, doubling him over—then used both hands to club him over the back of the head. The man hit the ground with a thud and didn’t move. The remaining two came again—one limping, the other spitting blood—but now Jack and Rabbit had momentum. The fight devolved into a flurry of fists, elbows, and desperate swings. It was brutal, messy. No style. Just survival. Jack caught a punch to the jaw and responded with the wrench again—this time to the side of the neck. The wiry one crumpled. Rabbit kicked the last man straight in the chest, sending him crashing into the wall. He didn’t get up. For a long moment, the room was still. Just heavy breathing. Distant voices outside the fair. The sound of something dripping—maybe blood, maybe oil.

Ford stood frozen near the corner, pale as chalk. The smirk was long gone. Jack spit blood into his hand and glared at him. “Now,” he rasped, voice shaking but defiant, “why don’t we try this again?” Ford hadn’t moved. His back was still against the far wall, a streak of sweat now cutting through the polished calm he wore like armor earlier. He wasn’t smirking anymore—just breathing, shallow and rapid, like a man doing the math of his own odds and not liking the result. Jack adjusted his grip on the wrench. “You sure you want to play the proud inventor card right now?” His voice came out hoarse but steady. “Because we just went through three of your best. And I’m not in the mood for another round.” Rabbit didn’t speak. He loomed beside Jack, blood smeared along the side of his temple, metal rod still clenched in his hand. His silence did most of the talking. He looked like a man who wouldn’t ask twice. Ford raised his hands—half surrender, half defiance. “You’re making a mistake,” he said through gritted teeth. “You think the blueprints are here? I’d never store something that valuable in a glorified showroom office. You’re wasting time.” Jack tilted his head. “Then why are you sweating bullets?”

Ford’s eyes twitched. Jack followed the glance—barely a flick, but Rabbit saw it too. The far wall. Rabbit moved first, scanning it with deliberate steps. His fingers ran over an oddly framed section where a set of decorative tools hung on display—polished wrenches, an old blueprint in a glass frame. But one corner of the frame had no dust, no tarnish. Too clean. “Here,” Rabbit muttered, and knocked his knuckles against the surface. Hollow. Ford moved. A desperate lunge—straight at Rabbit’s exposed side, hands clawing, teeth bared in fury. But Jack was faster. He stepped in and slammed the wrench down onto Ford’s shoulder with a sickening crunch. The inventor let out a grunt of pain and crumpled to the ground. Jack didn’t wait. He dropped to one knee, rifled through Ford’s coat. Pockets turned out keys, a ring of them—several brass, one polished black with a sigil etched into the teeth. That had to be it. Rabbit was already prying open the false wall. It gave with a pop, revealing a compact safe, the paint matching the wood grain so precisely it would’ve gone unnoticed if not for the inventor’s betrayal.

“Got it?” Jack asked. Rabbit nodded. “Let’s see if your little toy opens it.” Jack slipped the sigil key into the safe, turned it once, and felt a solid, satisfying click. Inside was a leather-bound folder, thick and pristine. Jack pulled it free. On the cover, the words “Prototype Transport Series I: Internal Combustion Concept” gleamed in embossed ink. Jack opened the folder just long enough to see tight rows of mechanical sketches, math far beyond his own skill level, and an annotated stamp reading CONFIDENTIAL – PATENT PENDING. “That’s our prize,” he breathed. And then—slam.

The door to the room flew open, banging against the wall. Harry stood in the doorway, wild-eyed, drenched in sweat, both hands gripping a broken stool leg like it was a holy weapon. His coat was torn at the sleeve, and the knuckles on his right hand were red and raw. Just outside the room lay the crumpled body of another guard, face down and unmoving. “I got lucky,” Harry panted, voice breathless. “Came around the side and caught him off guard. But…” He took a moment to collect himself. “People heard the fight. Somebody ran off. I think they went to get the Espiritas. We don’t have long.” The three of them froze. Even Jack, adrenaline still pulsing hot through his limbs, felt the cold twist of dread. The Espiritas Police. Not the usual beat cops. Not the bribable kind. These were the ones who wore polished boots and sanctified badges. The ones who showed up when God was offended by what you’d done. “We gotta move,” Rabbit said, already tucking the folder into his coat. Jack spared one last look at Ford, groaning on the floor. “Let’s not be here when he wakes up.” They dashed past the unconscious bodies, Harry taking up the rear and watching the corners like prey expecting claws. Down the hallway, around the corner—Jack kept his head low and his steps light, but the pounding of his heart drowned out even their boots.

They’d gotten what they came for. Well—half of it. The blueprint folder was tucked safely inside Rabbit’s coat, and the adrenaline was still crashing through Jack’s limbs like the tide pounding against Doskvol’s iron piers. But the job wasn’t done. Not yet. The three of them emerged from the private corridor and stumbled back into the public chaos of the fairgrounds. Noise. Movement. A low rumble of panic had spread like ink through the crowd. People were pressed shoulder to shoulder, some trying to flee the disturbance, others standing on tiptoe, craning necks toward the source of the sounds—raised voices, the sharp crack of something heavy falling, someone screaming about broken glass and blood. Guards scrambled, barking orders, trying to push people back from one of the pavilions, but it was too little, too late. The crowd had devolved into half-curious, half-panicked chaos. None of the guards noticed the three men slipping back into the river of movement. Harry led the way, head down, face low. Jack and Rabbit flanked him, each trying to breathe evenly, not draw attention. “Okay,” Jack muttered under his breath, “we’ve got the blueprints. Just one more piece and we’re done.” Harry nodded. “I know where it is.”

“You what?” Rabbit looked over, raising an eyebrow. “I got eyes on it before I circled back to you,” Harry said, scanning the crowd ahead. “They’re keeping the elixir in a special tent across the fairgrounds—east side. There’s a whole section just for alchemical innovations. I followed the sign for ‘Vigor & Advancement.’ Didn’t get close, but I marked the entrance. I think I saw the security rotation too.” Jack smiled grimly. “God bless your nosy habits, Harry.”

“Come on. This way.” They pressed through the crowd, weaving between stalls and tents, past jugglers and street magicians trying desperately to keep attention on their acts while panic simmered beneath the surface. A bard’s music died mid-tune. Smoke still drifted from the direction of the earlier disturbance. By the time they reached the alchemical sector, the foot traffic was lighter. Controlled. A single bored-looking guard wandered near the main entrance, distracted, trying to keep a flock of children away from a glass container labeled Do Not Ingest. Harry didn’t even hesitate. He guided them around to the back of the largest tent, where the fabric was staked to a wooden frame. There, half-hidden behind stacked crates of equipment, was a narrow wooden door. Harry reached for the handle. “Here.” Jack glanced around, then nodded. The door creaked as they stepped inside. The scent hit them first—sharpening salts, floral essences, and the faint sting of volatile chemicals. Inside, shelves rose from floor to ceiling, filled with alchemical bottles—some round, some long-necked, some glowing faintly from within. Blues, greens, ambers, and purples. Each labeled in tight, alchemist’s scrawl. Rows and rows of reagents, tonics, stimulants, and poisons. A few lanterns swung from the ceiling, flickering with light filtered through colored glass. The whole place shimmered like a kaleidoscope in stillness. Harry pointed toward a locked cabinet on the far side. “That’s where it would be. Look for anything labeled Z-53 or E-Series.” They began to fan out, stepping carefully. Jack ran his fingers along the labels. Numbroot. Hawk’s Powder. Specter Dew. Nothing useful yet. Then—

Click.

The door closed behind them with a whisper. Not a slam. Not a latch. Just… click. Jack turned sharply, his coat brushing a nearby shelf and rattling a row of delicately labeled vials. A man now stood between them and the only way out. He hadn’t been there seconds ago. No footsteps. No breath. Just there—like a ghost stepping in from the fog. The lanternlight shifted as it touched him, highlighting the hard angles of his face, the slick sheen of rain still clinging to the shoulders of his coat. He was tall and lean, with the kind of rigid stillness that didn’t come from fear—but from restraint. Black boots. Dark gloves. A coat reinforced at the seams and shoulders, made for movement and impact. A burn scar cut like a pale vine down his left cheek, just soft enough to be healed, just fresh enough to look earned. His expression was unreadable. Controlled. Like he was holding back an entire storm just behind his eyes. “You made quite the mess tonight,” the man said calmly, eyes locked on Jack. His voice was smooth—too smooth. Like a knife gliding on whetstone. “Didn’t think I’d catch up to you so soon.” Rabbit stepped to Jack’s side, lips drawing tight. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?” The man took a casual step forward. The lantern above him flickered slightly, catching the glint of metal studs running along the seam of his gloves. “Name’s Bruce Wallunde,” he said. “You don’t know me, but I know you.” He reached behind him, closed the door with one hand. Another click. A final one. No way out.

Jack shifted his weight instinctively, not enough to draw attention. Just enough to be ready. Bruce scanned each of them—Jack, Rabbit, Harry—like he was filing them away. His blue-gray eyes moved without hurry. Not the stare of someone afraid. The kind of gaze you saw on men who’d walked into ambushes and come out alone. “You’ve been leaving a trail,” Bruce said. “One prison break. Two break-ins. A dead inventor. Explosives, property damage, and now—stealing from a public science fair?” He looked around the small alchemical storeroom. Shelves of volatile compounds. Locked cabinets of chemicals. It would take nothing at all for this place to become a firestorm. “You’re making the wrong kind of friends,” Bruce added. Jack raised an eyebrow. “And you’re what, a fan club? Maybe here to ask for an autograph?” Bruce’s jaw twitched. The ghost of a smile. “I’m a bounty hunter. I was contracted for a retrieval. You three.” He tapped one gloved finger against his chest. “Alive, preferably dead tho.”

“Preferably?” Rabbit muttered. Bruce ignored him. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’ve been watching. Since the day you stole him. You didn’t think you would get away with it, right?” Jack didn’t answer. His mind was turning too fast for his tongue. Bruce continued. “You weren’t on anyone’s radar a month ago. Now people are starting to get curious.” He took another step forward, slow and deliberate. The chemical vials trembled on the shelves. “People like you don’t just rise out of nowhere. Someone gave you a ladder. The only question is… who? And why?” Harry swallowed hard. “You’re not here to talk.” Bruce looked at him for the first time. “No. I’m here for a job really.” Jack froze. Bruce was watching them now. Too closely. Jack kept his expression neutral. Curious. But not afraid. Not yet.

“You’ve got about twenty seconds,” Bruce said. “You surrender now, or I take all three of you in pieces.” Jack raised his hands slowly. “Alright. Let’s not turn this into something messy.” Jack’s hands remained up—at least half-raised—as he stepped in front of Rabbit. “Alright,” he said, voice slow and measured. “Let’s talk about this. What is it we stole that has you so eager to kill us over?” Bruce didn’t blink. “You know what it is.”

“If we did,” Rabbit said, glancing at Jack, “maybe we could give it back.” Bruce cocked his head slightly, studying Rabbit like a specimen. “No, you wouldn’t. You people don’t give things back. You take. And then run.”

“Still,” Rabbit pressed, his tone more diplomatic now, hands open at his sides. “We’re not looking to die in a room full of combustibles. You’ve got a job to do. We get it. But maybe there’s a way we both walk out of here. You get what you need, and we get to breathe another day.” Bruce said nothing. His body didn’t relax—didn’t even shift. Just that same stone-like stillness. His hand twitched once toward his belt. A pouch there. Tools. Gadgets. Jack noticed something else. Harry. Quiet. Too quiet. He stood just behind them, breathing through his nose, eyes locked on Bruce. His usual twitchy curiosity was gone, replaced by something cold and unreadable. Jack filed that away for later. Right now—

Bruce moved.

It wasn’t a warning. No flare of anger, no last threat. One second he stood there, and the next, his hand whipped forward. A small metal disk clattered across the floor and erupted in a burst of blinding light and crackling sound. “Flash bomb!” Jack shouted, but too late. The room bloomed in white. Ears rang. Shelves shook. Rabbit lunged blindly, tackling where he thought Bruce had been—but Bruce had already spun left, letting Rabbit’s weight carry him into a rack of bottles that exploded in a spray of liquid and shattered glass. Jack staggered sideways, blinking the stars out of his eyes. He felt more than saw Bruce’s next move—a knee slamming into his ribs, knocking him back against a shelf. He grabbed a vial as he fell and flung it instinctively. It burst against Bruce’s shoulder in a splash of burning tincture. The man snarled—just a flicker of pain—but it didn’t slow him. Harry, silent as ever, came in with a crowbar raised like a bat. Bruce ducked under the swing, caught Harry’s wrist, and twisted hard. The crowbar fell with a clang. Harry dropped to a knee, gasping. Rabbit was up again, blood trickling from his scalp. He drew a knife from inside his coat and slashed forward—Bruce twisted, grabbed Rabbit’s wrist mid-swing, and drove an elbow into his chest. Rabbit coughed, but managed to bring a knee up into Bruce’s thigh, throwing the bigger man off for a split second. Jack launched himself forward. He threw a punch—Bruce ducked it, grabbed his coat, and used Jack’s own momentum to flip him over onto the floor. Jack’s back slammed into the ground, knocking the breath from his lungs. Then Bruce was on him, boot on his chest, hand reaching again for something—another gadget, probably a shock prod or worse. Rabbit staggered forward but was caught in a grapple and shoved hard against a shelf. Harry tried to rise, but Bruce turned, tossing a glass bottle directly into his face. Harry stumbled back with a cry, clutching his eye. Jack gasped, trying to draw air into bruised lungs. Bruce stood over him now, one boot still planted. His chest heaved with controlled breaths. His coat was torn. A cut trickled blood down his temple. But he looked like a man with plenty of strength left to kill. Jack’s fingers clawed for anything—anything at all. A shard of glass. A metal flask. He gritted his teeth and tried to lift it—

BOOM.

The door behind Bruce exploded open, ripping off one of its hinges. Smoke and dust poured in—and so did she. A tall figure framed in the light. Blonde hair caught in the lanterns’ flicker. Rifle in her hands. Harlequina Silva. She moved fast. Bruce spun to face her, but he was too slow this time. Her rifle swung low—not to shoot—but to strike. The barrel cracked against his jaw with a sound like a snapped bone. He reeled. She stepped in close, slammed her elbow into his sternum, then dropped low and swept his legs with one brutal kick. Bruce hit the ground hard. He rolled instinctively, already reaching for another weapon, but Harlequina was faster. She planted her boot on his wrist and pressed down. Hard. “You don’t wanna pull that,” she growled. Her voice was rough, low, and full of steel. Bruce froze. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. His eyes locked on hers. Then—he smiled. Not wide. Not gloating. Just… interested. “You,” he muttered. She didn’t reply. Her rifle stayed steady. Jack, still gasping for air, forced himself upright. “You took your time.”

“Had to find the right door,” Harlequina said coolly, still keeping Bruce pinned. Rabbit limped over, face bruised, hair wet with blood. “Who the hell is this?” Jack smiled despite the pain in his ribs. “Boys,” he said, catching his breath, “meet my friend.” Harlequina finally looked at Jack, her eyes flicking to the bruise on his jaw, the way he held his ribs. “You look like shit.”

“We missed you too.” Jack’s gaze dropped to Bruce, who was watching them all now—not fearful, not beaten. Just calculating. Something told Jack this wasn’t over. Harlequina turned sharply to Jack, her voice low but urgent. “Do your zappy thing. Fast.”

Jack blinked. “What?” She jerked her head toward Bruce, who was beginning to stir, trying to shake the stars from his vision. “We’ve got maybe thirty seconds before uniforms flood that door. I didn’t knock him out forever. Make it count.” Jack swallowed hard. He hated this part. It wasn’t just dangerous—it was invasive. But the stakes were too high now. He staggered forward, eyes still watery from the fight, and dropped to a knee beside Bruce. Bruce’s eyelids fluttered. He was dazed, but conscious. Jack reached out, grabbed his chin, and forced him to look up. “Eyes on me, big guy,” Jack muttered. Bruce resisted—only slightly—but his head lolled back into Jack’s grasp, their eyes locking. And then it happened. Jack opened the door inside himself. He felt his mind push forward—like stepping off a ledge into a swirling storm. The world around him blurred, sound muffled into a low hum. He plunged into Bruce’s gaze, deeper than just sight—deeper than thought. A shimmer rippled across his vision. Tendrils of memory flared behind Bruce’s eyes like branching lightning. Images—snapshots—flashed by. The prison break. The chase through Silkshore. The meeting with a mysterious client. Their faces. Jack found the memory. The fair. The elixir. The confrontation. And he cut. Just one memory. Clean. As surgical as he could make it. The connection snapped with a jolt that rattled his spine. Jack fell back on one hand, blinking rapidly. Bruce slumped against the shelf, eyes wide and unfocused, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. Harlequina crouched beside him. “Did it work?”

“I don’t know,” Jack muttered, his voice raw. “Maybe. His mind’s tough. Could be fragmented. Could come back in pieces.” Harry hovered nearby, knuckles white on his makeshift club. “What the hell was that? What did you do to him?” Jack didn’t look at him. “I can... push into minds. If I have eye contact. If they’re weak enough. Distracted. I can remove things. Memories.”

“Since when?” Rabbit asked, his voice flat. Suspicious. Jack stood slowly, wincing as pain laced through his ribs. “Since always.”

“And how many times have you—”

Before Rabbit could finish, the door behind them creaked open again. Not with force this time—but with slow, methodical pressure. Three fair security guards stepped in, batons out and jaws tight. Behind them, clad in the dark blue and gold trim of the Espiritas Police, stood a tall woman with a badge on her chest and the look of someone who very much wanted to start making arrests. The whole room froze. Without missing a beat, Harlequina stood tall, slinging her rifle behind her and raising her hands casually. “About time you showed up,” she said coolly. “Name’s Harlequina Silva. Hired security for the fair.” The Espiritas officer frowned. “This your post?”

“No,” Harlequina said, jerking her thumb at Bruce. “But I followed this man in here after seeing him snoop around the elixir tent. He got aggressive when I confronted him. When I entered, I found him assaulting these three civilians.” The officer’s eyes narrowed. “These three?”

“Visitors,” Harlequina confirmed. “Got caught in the mess. Scared, obviously.” She gave a subtle glance to the trio. “But they held their own.” Jack cleared his throat and gave a weak smile. “Uh, yeah. Just came to see the fair. Got a bit more than we paid for.” Rabbit nodded along, adjusting his glasses with a subtle tremor in his hand. “He came at us like a lunatic. Thought he was going to blow the place up.” Harry just held up the crowbar and gestured vaguely to the shelves. “We tried not to die. That’s about all we did.” The officer stepped into the room, studying them, then Bruce. He groaned slightly, still out of sorts, blinking at the ceiling like it didn’t make sense. One of the security guards looked confused. “He’s got ID. Name’s Bruce Wallunde. Says he’s with... uh, bounty clearance.” The officer frowned deeper. “He didn’t check in through proper channels.” Harlequina folded her arms. “Doesn’t surprise me. A real bounty hunter wouldn’t have endangered civilians or gone off protocol.” There was a pause. Then, finally, the officer sighed. “We’ll sort it out back at the post. Escort him out. I’ll need all your names and statements. You’ll be contacted if charges are pressed.” Jack gave a dramatic sigh of relief. “Anything to help. We’re just glad it’s over.” As the guards lifted Bruce between them and started dragging him out, the bounty hunter looked back, his face pale but unfocused. No recognition. Not of Jack. Not of Rabbit. Not even of the place around him. Jack looked away. He hated using that part of himself. But sometimes, the fog was the only way out.

The door clicked shut behind the last uniform. Silence stretched across the shattered alchemical room, broken only by the low hum of bubbling vials and the distant murmur of a dispersing crowd. Rabbit leaned back against a shelf, one arm draped over a bruised rib. Harlequina, still on edge, eyed the door for a few more seconds before relaxing her grip on her rifle. Jack let out a shaky breath and turned toward Harry, who hadn’t said a word since Bruce was dragged out unconscious. It was Harry who finally broke the silence. “We still need to find it,” he said. Jack blinked. “What?”

“The elixir,” Harry clarified, glancing toward the shelves. “It’s the other half of the job, right?”

“Oh. Right.” Jack nodded, the rush of the brawl still buzzing in his head. “Yeah.”

“She’s one of us,” he added quickly, noticing Rabbit’s wary glance toward Harlequina. “You can trust her.”

“I just saved your neck, sweetheart,” Harlequina muttered as she moved toward a shelf near the back, ignoring the trail of spilled glass and scattered chemicals. Harry scowled. “That doesn’t mean she knows where the elixir is.” Harlequina snorted. “You’re all so exhausting.”

She reached up with sure hands and plucked a bottle from an untouched section of the wall. It shimmered faintly—light blue, with a swirling glow inside like a bottled storm. E-Series: Z-53. The label was unmistakable. “This is it,” she said, holding it up between thumb and forefinger. Rabbit stared. “How do you know?” Harlequina tilted her head, incredulous. “Because it’s been the centerpiece of this entire section for the past hour. They did two demonstrations with it. One on a horse. One on a dog. Crowds gathered. Announcers shouted. Where the hell were you?” Rabbit rubbed the back of his head, a little sheepishly. “Busy getting tackled by mercenaries.” Harlequina rolled her eyes and slipped the elixir into a padded pouch on her coat. “Maybe next time try reading a sign or two before blowing things up.”

“We didn’t blow anything up,” Jack muttered.

“Not yet,” she shot back.

They all moved to the back of the room again, trying to get their bearings. Jack was already thinking through the escape route when Rabbit’s voice cut through the air again—sharp, focused. “Wait. Before we leave—Harry, you owe us an explanation.” Harry looked up sharply. “Now? Seriously?” Jack folded his arms. “You’ve been acting off since the brawl. And Bruce said he was after us. Not just the elixir. He’s been following us since we broke out that prisoner. That was weeks ago.” Rabbit nodded. “So what the hell did you steal?” Harry hesitated. Then he sighed. “That day… when we were in the Governor’s House,” he began slowly. “You remember the captain’s office? The door was cracked open.” Jack nodded. “Yeah. We passed it on the way out.”

“Well, I saw something in there. Something golden. Looked expensive. There was no one around, and the guards were chasing us somewhere else. So I grabbed it.” Jack narrowed his eyes. “What was it?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “It’s… a rod, I think. Or a staff? Gold, smooth. A bit longer than your arm. Tapered at the base, like a spike. But the top… it’s got these weird blade things, like wings. And there’s this round gem at the center. Looks like an eye.” Rabbit stared. “An eye?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “And the weird thing is, it feels wrong. Or powerful. I can’t tell. But it hums. Not like a machine. Like… in your chest. Like it’s alive or something.” Jack’s voice lowered. “Where is it now?”

“Wrapped in linen. Stuffed at the bottom of my trunk. Haven’t touched it since. It gives me the creeps.” Harlequina looked between them. “And let me guess. You didn’t think to mention this before tonight?”

“I didn’t know it was important!” Harry snapped. “It looked valuable, sure. But I didn’t know anyone was tracking it. Or that they’d send a hunter like him.” Rabbit whistled softly, running a hand through his hair. “So let’s get this straight—we weren’t just being hunted because of Jerome. Or the fair. This… thing you picked up, it’s what someone really wanted back.”

“And they almost got it,” Jack muttered. “We nearly died tonight.” Harlequina crossed her arms. “Whatever it is, it’s not ordinary. Not if it drew him.” They were quiet for a moment. Just the sound of glass settling on shelves. “We need to study it,” Jack said finally. “See what it does. Why it matters. But not here. And not tonight.”

“Agreed,” Rabbit nodded. “Let’s get out while we still can.” Harlequina raised an eyebrow. “And next time you pick up a cursed antique, Harry—maybe ask someone first.” He gave her a sheepish shrug. “Noted.” They slipped back into the fairgrounds through the same rear door, their prize in Harlequina’s coat, a thousand questions still unanswered… and one golden rod waiting in a trunk across the city, quietly humming in the dark.

Getting out wasn’t hard—not anymore.

The shattered glass, the overturned shelves, the unconscious bounty hunter—none of it mattered once the Espiritas Police arrived. Harlequina’s lie about being hired security held. The badge she flashed looked real enough. Her commanding tone did the rest. Jack, Rabbit, and Harry leaned into the story like seasoned actors. Shocked expressions, nervous stammering, exaggerated wounds—perfect victims of a violent madman in a coat. The officer in charge barked a few orders, and no one looked too closely. After all, chaos was already bleeding through the fair like ink on wet parchment. One more thread in the tangle was hardly worth pulling. They slipped out with the crowd—blending into the fearful, the nosy, the clueless. No one chased them. No one called their names. But still, Jack didn’t breathe properly until they turned a corner and the sounds of the fair died behind them. The group moved through the alleys like phantoms, darting between laundry lines and broken lamplight, navigating the veins of Doskvol by instinct. Harlequina led part of the way, always a few steps ahead, checking corners. Jack clutched the folder tight under his coat, the blueprints still warm from the safe. Beside him, Rabbit carried the elixir like a priest might hold relics. And Harry—well, Harry looked like a man who knew just how close he’d come to never walking again. They didn’t speak much. The city was too loud for that. Church bells in the distance. Sirens. The low hum of power coursing through cables overhead. And somewhere—too far to track—the slow, quiet ticking of whatever clockwork they’d just started.

By the time they reached Lannic’s Tech Emporium, the moon was high, thin and sharp as a blade above the rooftops. The shopfront was still—its windows casting a soft orange glow onto the cobblestones. A passerby might think it was closed, or maybe just the sort of place that sold dusty gadgets no one remembered how to use. But beneath the floorboards, down the iron spiral stairs and behind the false wall in the backroom corridor—the Cyphers were waiting. The trio entered without hesitation. Harlequina followed, though her steps slowed just slightly, eyes scanning the edges of the shop with quiet familiarity. The woman at the counter—still playing her role as innocent shopkeep—nodded once and wordlessly pushed open the hidden door. The four descended. The hum of machines greeted them immediately. Hushed voices. Ticking gears. The scent of solder and oil. It was like stepping into another world—one carved from brass and electricity, lit by flickering tubes and spectral energy banks. Lannic Morrow stood at the center of it all, behind a wide metal desk covered in tools and papers, with Arthur Xavier at his right and another Cypher hunched over a half-dissected drone in the corner. Lannic turned as they entered, the burn-scarred half of his face catching the light like tarnished gold. His mechanical finger clicked faintly against the edge of his cup.

“You’re late,” he said, though not unkindly. His voice was still the same—smooth, calculated, with a razor-thin thread of command woven into every syllable.

“We ran into some complications,” Jack said.

Rabbit rolled his shoulder with a wince. “And then we ran into someone’s fist. Several times.”

Harry slumped onto a crate. “And then someone exploded through a door.”

Lannic’s eyes flicked to Harlequina. He gave a slight nod. “I heard you might be joining us.”

She offered him a salute that could’ve been sarcastic or respectful—or both. “Would’ve sent a note, but I was busy saving your newest allies from their own cleverness.”

Jack stepped forward and handed over the blueprints, still in their folded case. Rabbit passed him the elixir next. Lannic received them both without a word, his sharp eyes scanning the labels, the wax seals, the contents inside. “Excellent work,” he said after a pause. “Very few crews could have pulled off a dual acquisition at the city’s largest invention showcase. And survived.” He looked up at them. “You’ve earned more than coin tonight. You’ve earned consideration.”

Jack arched a brow. “That sounds vague enough to be dangerous.” Arthur snorted from his seat. “Means he likes you. Don’t ruin it.” Harlequina crossed her arms. “So? What now? You send them on some suicide mission, or are we all going to take a nap for once?”

“There’s always more work,” Lannic said, placing the elixir into a locking crate. “But I imagine you’re not here to live quietly.” Jack gave a tired smile. “What gave it away?”

With business concluded for the night, the four of them made their way back out into the city. This time, they walked slower. No alarms. No blood. No bounty hunter breathing down their necks. Their hideout wasn’t much—a dilapidated old townhouse half-sunken into the stone near the edge of Crow’s Foot. The lower floors were barely habitable, and the roof leaked like a sieve. But the basement? The basement was theirs. Crates for chairs. Blankets nailed over windows. One lantern hanging from a wire. It smelled like oil and dirt and secrets. They laid the blueprint folder on the table. Jack poured a drink. Rabbit sat down and took off his boots. Harry dropped his satchel and finally pulled out the golden rod—still wrapped in linen, still humming quietly like a stormcloud on a leash. They all stared at it for a long while.

“…Well,” Rabbit finally said, voice hoarse. “That was one hell of a night.”

Jack raised his glass. “To the crew with no name.”

Harlequina sighed and slumped into a chair. “Let’s fix that soon.”

Outside, the city went on pretending nothing had happened. The streets hummed. The mist rolled in from the bay. Somewhere far away, the Espiritas Police locked up an unconscious bounty hunter with scrambled memories and a list of questions no one could answer.

But in the basement of a house that shouldn’t still be standing, four people sat around a table with the blueprints to revolutionize transport, a miracle drug that shouldn’t exist, and an ancient, golden artifact that none of them understood.

The job was done.

But the game?

The game was just beginning.

Next Chapter: News: Mystery Unfolds at Local Science Fair: Man Arrested, Invention Unveiled Amidst Chaos