The bandaged assassin who saved your life is searching for Fortuna.

He’s searching for Fortuna, the young girl currently crashing with her mother in the apartment right above your head.

Keep it together, you tell yourself. Act nonchalant. Be a cool cat, a stone-faced statue, a hardboiled private eye…

“You’ve seen this girl before,” Kayne says, reading your face like an open book. “Where did you see her?” He steps up, invading your personal space. “Where?” He repeats.

“Whoah there!” You say, stepping back and holding up your hand. “Slow down a moment!” You try your best to sound concerned (which you very much are). “Is this girl in danger?”

“In this den of predators and parasites?” Kayne asks. “What do you think, sorcerer?”

“Okay,” you concede. “Stupid question. Let me rephrase.” You meet his eyes: “Is she in danger from you?”

Kayne stares at you blankly. Inch by inch, second by second, you watch as an expression of horror and disgust slowly creeps across his face, clear as day even beneath all the bandages.

“…No!” He says. “Never. Wh would you think that?”

Is he serious, you wonder? Does he not realize how scary he is?

“Not all monsters come with fangs and claws,” you tell him. “So I’ll ask you again: why are you looking for this girl?”

“…I’ve been hired to retrieve her...” Kayne says at last.

Oh, you think. That’s good.

“...and kill the woman she’s with,” Kayne continue, pulling a photo of Fausta from his wallet and holding it up next to the photo of little Fortuna.

That’s less good.

“Um. Well. They look like they’re related,” you say casually, leaning in close and pretending to inspect the photos closely.

“Don’t let the similarities fool you,” Kayne says. “This woman is a ruthless murderer and criminal who’s using this girl for her own sinister ends.” Kayne tucks his photos away. “Which is why I’ll ask you one more time: have you seen that girl?”

“I…”

“Stupid question,” Kayne says. “Let me rephrase: where did you see this girl?”

With a sinking feeling, you realize that you don’t have the nerve to lie. Not to this man.

All you can do––all you can hope to do––is tell him the truth.

“I saw her…I saw her being attacked by an Ogre,” you say, every single word escaping reluctantly from your lips. “A tall, gaunt Ogre with acid-washed denim jeans…”

Kayne stiffens. “Did this creature hurt her?” He asks.

“No,” you say, averting your eyes. “But…” You let your voice trail off.

Kayne’s already cold tone of voice drops to several degrees below freezing. “You stood by and just let this Ogre take her?”

“Off course I tried to do something!” You shout indignantly . “I tried to save her…I’m trying to save her…”

You fall silent and stare down at your shoes. If you say anything more, it’ll be a lie. But if you let this man draw his own conclusions from the few scraps of truth you shared...

Kayne visibly relaxes. “Ah,” he says. “I didn’t realize…”

“I’ve been tracking that Ogre down all morning,” you say. "Grilling witnesses, shaking up suspects..." You gesture towards the motionless form of Jellyfish Stan. “Before you dealt with her, she mentioned something about the Ogre being at the Lizardman Memorial Center.”

You wiggle your fingers. Your sword leaps from its sheath like a shell ejected from a shotgun. You catch your jian by the hilt and rest the blade against your shoulder.

“I was about to go investigate that,” you tell Kayne. “So how about it, Beast-Breaker? Got any other leads to follow?"

#

Monster hunters and monsters go together like bulls and china-shops—mostly because they like to get into physical debates over who’s the bull and who’s the china shop.

For this reason, you decide to lead Mandrake Kayne to the meat auction on foot instead of boarding one of the monster-filled trolley cars.

You walk side by side, neither of you willing to show their back to the other. Kayne stares straight ahead, chin twitching back and forth as he scans the street for threats.

You keep your eyes fixed on Kayne. You scan every single facet of his dark and edgy Monster Hunter fashion: the black coat, the bandages, his many, many knives.

You wonder if he’s one of the good ones or bad ones.

“How long have you been doing this?” you ask Kayne.

“That’s classified,” Kayne replies gruffly.

“Well,” you say, coming at things from a different angle, “how’d you get into this business in the first place? What drew you to the hunting profession?”

“You ask lots of questions,” Kayne growls, nostrils flaring beneath his bandages.

“Hey man.” You hold up your hands. “Just trying to know you better.”

“Why?” Kayne snaps. "What are you hoping to gain?"

“Um…” You scratch the back of your head. “If we understand each other, we can work as a team? And be friends?”

“Hmmph,” Kayne replies. He turns his head, glaring at you with narrow, suspicious eyes.

You decide to change tactics.

“We’re marching toward a den of monsters that carve people up to make steaks,” you point out. “If we want to succeed—hell, if we want to survive—we need to work together.”

“Incorrect,” Kayne says, loosening one of his knives in its sheath. “I will slay all the monsters myself. You won’t have to do a thing.”

Hoo boy. You change your tactics again. Kindness and sentiment won’t reach this guy, you realize. You’ll have to argue using logic—no, science.

“Fine, fine,” you grumble, tugging the brim of your hat down. “Be the lone wolf. Still, if you don’t want me to get in your way, shouldn’t you explain how you operate? This way,” you tell him, pointing toward the left turn of the intersection.

Kayne, ever the silent type, follows you into the seedier part of Cryptatown, away from the shiny residential blocks and into the old industrial district. Gas lamps and civic trees grow scare. Gray warehouses and cracked windows multiply.

“Have you heard of the Hrunting Society?” Mandrake Kayne asks you, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets.

“Hunting Society?” you say after a moment’s hesitation.

“Hrunting Society,” Kayne repeats, putting emphasis on the ‘R’ sound.

“No,” you reply. “I haven’t heard of them.”

“For a good reason,” Kayne tells you. “We keep to the shadows and forsake all thoughts of a normal life so we can fight Mankind’s predators without restraint. So we can fights them with all our strength, even if our swords break.”

He stops in his tracks for a brief moment. “Even if we break,” he whispers.

“Isn’t that a little messed up?” you say after a moment’s pause.

Kayne shakes his head. “It’s necessary,” he tells you. “A true hunter can’t afford any distractions.” He shakes his head. “So if you’re looking to bond over sports games or movies, expect to be disappointed. I’m nothing but the flame that burns away the dark.”

“So...you’re like a superhero?” you ask him.

“A what?” Mandrake asks.

“A superhero?” you repeat. “Fights evil, wears a mask, has a secret identity so their enemies can’t target their loved ones?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kayne tells you flatly.

You gesture toward his bandages. “No need to be shy! I think the comic book aesthetic looks good on you!” You lower your voice, speaking dramatic baritone: “From the depths of night he seeks out the forces of crime and discord. Evildoers beware…the wrath of Mummy-Man!”

“Enough of this,” Mandrake Kayne spits, the face beneath his winding bandages turning red. “You want to know how we’ll work together?” He draws the hem of his coat open to reveal his many glittering knives. “I will cut, and you will stay back until it is done!”

You clench your teeth. Dammit, you think. What crawled up his butt and died today?

“Well,” you say with a huff, “do you want me to enchant your weapons before I get out of your way?”

Kayne’s steady stride falters for a moment. “Enchantments?” he asks.

“Yes,” you reply with heavy patience. “I’m an Enchanter. I enchant things.” You tap the hilt of your antique sword. “Older artifacts hold spells for longer, but I could give your gear enchantments that should hold for a day or two.” You count out spells on the fingers of your hand: “Fire buffs, hardening spells, levitation, threat detection…you name it, I can probably cast it!”

Kayne stops in his tracks. His gray eyes bore into you with a newfound interest.

“See?” you tell him. “When you ask people about themselves, sometimes you learn how they can help you.”

You stride ahead of the monster hunter, willingly exposing your back to his knives. You point toward an alleyway filled with spider webs and brick barnacles. “Through here,” you tell Kayne. “Watch your feet for poisoned barbs.”

You don’t look back, but you hear Kayne’s shoes click against the brickwork as he follows you. You imagine that he’s brooding like a proper 1990s anti-hero.

“Gremlina,” you whisper. “Zoavita.” You chop your way through the sticky silver webs, your ancient sword burning away the strands on contact. You advance through the spider nest, stepping around the rainbow-hued shells of slow-moving snails.

Oh. Look, Diesel! There are pearls hanging from the webs. Milk pearls that glisten with the light of the moon. We should collect a few as souvenirs!

No? Fine, then. Do as you please. Persist in your live of impoverished squalor if it suits you.

You don’t hear Kayne scream out in agony, so he probably hasn’t been stung by the snail’s poisonous barbs.

What do you think, Diesel? Is he a good Hunter or a bad Hunter? An upright shepherd of the human herd...or more like the privileged killers in your father’s precious Sect?

#

Somchair Shintawantra’s voice rose to a crescendo as he chanted the last verse of the sealing Sutra. The hungry ghost shrieked in despair as its essence was compressed into a slender tornado, swirling down into the confines of the dusty wine jar. Saline slammed the lid down on top of the jar and bound it shut with a loop of white string.

“You are hereby…SEALED!” Somchair told the hungry ghost. He looked over his shoulder at you. “Hey, Jar-boy!” He shouted. “I’ve got another one for you!”

“Got it, got it,” you grumbled under you breath, rushing forward and pulling a roll of bubble wrap out from your backpack.

Somchair handed the sealed jar over to you: you tucked it between your forearm and chest, shuddering as you felt the hungry cold wafting up from beneath the clay.

“Think fast!” Somchair said suddenly, hitting your shoulder with a hard jab.

“AH!” You cried out, recoiling and frantically juggling the ghost-possessed jar. “Are you insane?” You hissed.

Somchair laughed and slapped the side of his leg. “The look on your face–!” He moaned, wiping tears from his eyes. “There’s just some things money can’t buy, eh, bra?”

You pouted. “And here I was thinking this was a serious exorcism mission,” you muttered. “If I’d known this was a frat house, I’d have brought some beer kegs.”

“That’s funny,” Somchair said with a sniff. “You’re real funny.” He patted you on the shoulder, a casual, fraternal gesture delivered with a bit too much force to actually feel affectionate. “Just makes sure you wrap up the jars real tight, eh, Jar-boy? Don’t squander the chance your old man gave you, yah?”

You pressed your lips tight together, unable to think of any response that wouldn’t sound petulant.

Somchair grunted and walked away from you, tapping the flat side of his ink machete against his legs as he stepped through the old double doors.

“Wait,” you called out after him. “Should we really be splitting up inside a haunted house…?”

He was already gone.

“Well damn,” you muttered under your breath. “Looks like someone didn’t watch Scooby-Doo as a kid...or maybe he watched too much Scooby-Doo?”

You sighed, sat down on the long dining room table and got to work. You wrapped layer after layer of bubble wrap around the jar until it was bundled up like an alien egg. You reached for the roll of tape to secure the wrapping: the tape screeched loudly as you pulled it loose, a horrible noise that echoed through the chambers of the vacant moldering mansion.

You stifled a shudder and went to go slide the bundled ghost jar into one of the cardboard boxes you’d brought. It jammed halfway in.

“Dammit,” you whisper under your breath. "I didn’t sign up with the Sect for this retail store stuff." You slid the jar free and pulled out your Ink Machete to cut away some of the bubble wrap...

You heard a loud creaking noise, the sound of a footstep treading on an old floor. You also heard a short, soft murmur, the sound of someone cursing under their breath.

You rose out of your chair. “Hello?” You shouted, Ink Machete held at the ready. “Somchair? You there? If this is another senior prank, I should remind you that I’ve got a magical blade, and I might wind up cutting you!”

Silence.

You closed your eyes and listened. You heard the soft humming of electrical lamps, the chirping of crickets in the creepy garden outside…

...and the faint, elusive sound of two voices whispering to each other.

You tightened your grip on the machete and poked your head out into the hallway. Nothing: the hallway was completely empty, save for a few creepy paintings of gentleman and ladies with powdered wigs and glowing red eyes that followed your every move.

“Hnngh,” you said. You rolled back your sleeve and yanked an inch of black string off the long bracelet on your arm.

“White string to protect,” you muttered, holding the length of thread up between your thumb and forefinger. “Black to attract.”

You tossed the black string up, watching it float and spin through the air, carried by a silent breeze. You watched as the black string floated past your shoulder, drifting to the room you just left.

You ducked back into the dining hall and watched the black strand land on the ground, vanishing among the fibers of the old, moldy carpet.

You plucked another black thread free and tossed it to the winds.

Again, it drifted forward and fell to the carpet below, drawn with a magnetic-like force.

You bent over and flipped the carpet back with the tip of your machete.

“Son of a gun,” you whispered. “What’s next, a sliding bookcase?”

You reach down, grasped the trap door’s iron rung, and pulled. The trap door swung open, revealing a series of slick stone steps that descended into absolute darkness.

You clicked your flashlight on, held your Ink Machete up, and descended.

The steps went down four meters, eight meters, fifteen...

Eventually you reached the bottom, feet padding across a floor made of hard, packed earth. You panned the flashlight back and forth, scanning the basement for contents, clues, signs….

You saw rusted iron chains dangling from the ceiling, surrounding a stone altar adorned with char-painted runes and what looks to be the remains of a butchered squirrel, hooked up with alligator clips to what looks like a heavily modified Commodore 64.

“...yeah, no,” you said out loud, taking a step back. “I’m sorry, Murder Basement, but it’s just not going to work out between us!”

You turned to head back up the steps to safety.

Long, rib-like bones sprouted from the dirt floor like the jaws of an anglerfish, sealing off the only path to safety.

“Okay, then,” you said, privately surprised at how calm your voice was. “This is happening now.”

You turned to face the desiccated zombies emerging from the shadowy passageways, withered corpses stitched together with surgical thread and what looks like duct tape. Vacuum Tubes protruded from their foreheads like police siren cones, glowing softly in the dark.

You flicked your Ink Machete to the side. Dark ribbons of liquid bursted forth from of your blade’s steel, lashing back and forth in the air like jellyfish tendrils.

“C’mon, then,” you told the zombies, grinning wide enough to hurt your cheeks. “I’ll show you monsters what a Worawoot can do.”

#

You rip your porkpie hat off your head and pinch the brim tight between your fingers.

You should know that this doesn’t hurt me, Diesel. Not physically, at least.

You hack through the last layer of spider web and emerge into a fenced off yard of an old factory complex. You can still see steel droplets embedded in the concrete, spray from a long-gone smelter.

Your destination lies across the lot: an old red-bricked mansion with narrow stained-glass windows and castle-style crenellations across the edge of the rooftop.

Mandrake Kayne emerges from the alley and walks up to you. He stares directly into your face. 

What is he doing, you wonder? Cold-reading? Is there something on your face? Does he know that you lied about Fortuna and Fausta? Should you make a run for it?

“Could you make me silent?” Kayne asks. “Or enchant one of my knives to make me silent?”

You relax. “A bubble of silence?” You chuckle. “Piece of cake!”

Kayne draws two knives from his coat and holds them out to you, brass knuckle hilts first. “Your magic would be...useful,” he admits reluctantly. “Can you put a silence spell on one of these and that fire spell I saw on the other?”

“Yes I can.” You accept the knives by their hilts. But when you examine them closely, your nose wrinkles.

“No, I can’t.” You hand the knives back.

“Excuse me?” Kayne says.

“Those knives aren’t any good for enchanting,” you tell the monster hunter. You sniff loudly: “You were planning on throwing these away, weren’t you?”

“I can always get more,” Kayne tells you, re-sheathing his knives among his vast collection.

How to explain it to him, you wonder?

“…when Merlin made a magic sword for King Arthur,” you tell Kayne, “he didn’t just pick up a random pigsticker and stuff it with spells. He stuck a well-made sword in the stone, made people fight for it, made them want it.”

You point a finger at Kayne’s chest weapons. “You’ve got lots of knives,” you concede, “but which ones are yours? Which knives matter to you?”

Kayne reaches into the lining of his coat. His hands freezes halfway through the motion, a glimmer of distrust in his eyes.

“Oh, c’mon,” you says, setting your porkpie hat back on your head. “Do you really think this is some evil scheme to steal your favorite knives? This is basic magical logic.”

You see Kayne’s jaw visibly clench beneath the bandages on his head: he pulls out two knives and hands them to you.

The first knife looks used and worn: the gray blade has a few chips in its edge, and the brass knuckle rings on the hilt are scratched.

The second blade is a folding knife with a horn grip and metal clasp– small enough to be slipped into a pocket, but still large enough to cut a throat.

You don’t ask where these knives came from, or why he treasures them so dearly. You simply take them gingerly into your hands.

“Dumaha,” you whisper, brushing the pocketknife with your finger. Magic drips from your fingers like and fills the knife to the brim.

The ambient noises around you—the cawing of Bale Crows, the whining of air conditioners—fades to a whisper, then to perfect silence.

For a moment, the silence is soothing. Then it starts to get alarming. You feel the hairs on your neck rise; the biggest, burliest giant in the world could be sneaking up behind you and you wouldn’t hear a thing, you realize.

Mandrake Kayne’s lips flap up and down in perfect silence. You make a note to learn how to read lips in the future. Useful phrases like “look out behind you,” or “stop before you kill us all.”

You touch your finger to the pocket knife again, forming a mental interface with the spell of silence. You close your eyes and picture a lattice of symbols and computer language, arranged into a three-dimensional diamond. You make a small tweak to the code, a simple If-Then statement.

You open your eyes and fold the pocketknife closed.

Sound rushes back into your ears, like air filling your lungs after ages spent underwater.

“Here” you say, handing the Kayne’s pocketknife back. “This could be a double-edged sword, mind you.”

Kayne takes his pocketknife and flips it open. The world falls silent around you two. Kayne flips his pocketknife closed. Sound returns.

“Hmmm,” Kayne grunts. “There’s no way to make the enchantment one-way?”

“Making us silent while letting us hear the outside world?” You muse. “Maybe. Get in touch with me after a few months of research.”

You raise Kayne’s knuckle dagger. “Zoavita,” you whisper, drawing your fire enchantment out of your bronze sword and pouring it into the Kayne’s favorite punchy blade.

“Sorry I can’t be more helpful,” you say, handing the freshly buffed knife back to Kayne.

Kayne reclaims his trench knife and, surprisingly, smiles. “No,” he says, tossing his pocketknife up and down in his hand. “This will be very useful.”

“Oh!” you blurt out, feeling a surge of relief. Maybe this guy’s not so bloodthirsty after all!

Kayne looks up at the gray brick wall of the ancient factory, focusing on a square, dusty window eight feet from the ground and free of any security bars. His smile sharpens.

“Those beasts will never know what hit them,” he chuckles.

No. Never mind. Bloodthirsty it is. You’d criticize your new ally for his murderous tendencies if you weren’t afraid he’d stab you.

#

Shortly after breaking in, Kayne uses the knives you enchanted to murder a ghoul...

You’d just smashed a window and squeezed your way into an old fashioned bathroom…all in complete quiet, thanks to Kayne’s knife of silence.

The moment your feet touched the linoleum floor, a dark-furred, yellow-fanged ghoul stepped out of the nearest stall, zipping up the fly of his pinstripe suit. He looked up. His jaundiced eyes bulged. He opens his mouth and roared.

Silence.

The ghoul’s long snout snapped shut. He tilted his head to the side in confusion.

In that split second of uncertainty, Mandrake Kayne flowed past you and pierced the ghoul’s windpipe with his fire-enchanted knife.

...which brings us to the present.

Flames pour from the ghoul’s throat, spilling from his canine jaws and scorching the collar of his fancy suit. The ghoul clutches his burning throat with one hand and swipes at Kayne with the other.

Kayne ducks under the flailing arm, slices the ghoul’s tendons, and kicks him over onto the ground. The ghoul eats a faceful of concrete and broken glass. Kayne stabs the ghoul in the back, works the burning knife in deep, and severs his spine with a savage twist.

You stand there, gaping silently, watching the ghoul carcass twitch on the ground. You feel shocked. You feel outraged.

Why, though? You enlisted—no, tricked this monster hunter into helping you. What did you think you were going to do in this place? Negotiate with the beasts?

Even the Black Forest Sect never taught you that particular skill.

Kayne folds his enchanted pocketknife closed. Sound returns to you with an audible ’pop’.

“This fire spell is useful,” he tells you, examining the sizzling blade of his trench knife. “I can stab a creature and cauterize their wounds in the same instant. I won’t have to worry about bloodstains”

“Mandrake Kayne,” you say, hissing your words from between clenched teeth. “What the friggin’ hell was that?”

“One less maw to tear the flesh from women and children,” Kayne replies as he sheathes his trench knife. He gives the dead ghoul a kick to the head, as if to give his words an exclamation point.

“…You had a bubble of silence,” you point out. “You could have knocked him out and tied him up in the bathroom.”

“And leave him alive to tell the other monsters we’re here?” Kayne points out.

“Well, now we have a corpse to dispose of!” you snap, pointing down at the dead ghoul. You then point to the claw marks in the walls and the broken mirror frame. “The next person who needs to take a leak is going to figure things out damn fast anyway!”

“I don’t understand,” Mandrake Kayne says. “Why do you care about this ghoul?” His voice acquires a sarcastic drawl. “Do you think he was one of the good monsters?”

You look down at the dead ghoul, noting the cut of his fancy suit, the keenness of his claws, and the dried flecks of blood stuck in his yellow fur.

“No,” you say. “He’s at a crime lord’s meat auction, and his clothes are smart enough that he’s probably one of the bidders.”

“There you go,” Mandrake Kayne says with a huff, pushing past you toward the bathroom door. “Monster are monsters. They kill and eat humans. It’s their nature.”

“And what does that say about you?” You growl. 

Mandrake stops in his tracks.

“The moment you saw that ghoul, you went for its throat,” you tell him. “No thought, no hesitation. You carved him up like a buzz saw. It was natural for you.” Your voice sharpens. “Doesn’t that scare you?”

You half-expect Mandrake to rattle off another glib statement stolen from one of the trial records of the Inquisition. But he doesn’t. Strangely enough, he frowns and seems to think about what you said.

“I wish it did,” he says, almost sounding sad.

He walks out the bathroom door, not even bothering to dispose of the ghoul corpse lying on the ground.

You feel utterly annoyed, a feeling I can’t help but share... Diesel.

I’m so sympathetic to your plight, in fact, that I would be willing to help you dispose of this dead ghoul that has brought such sorrow to your heart. All you have to do is set me free—

You grab the dead ghoul by the armpits and, after much cursing, drag him into one of the toilet stalls, plop him on a toilet, and close the door behind.

You wash your hands in the sink, exit the bathroom...

...and nearly collide with a green-scaled, yellow-eyed Lizardman.

You yelp and recoil. As you fumble for your sword, your hand brushes through an invisible infrared sensor. The Lizardman opens its jaw and speaks:

“50,000 B.C.,” the Lizardman says, voice laced with synthetic static. “Early Lizardkind takes its first steps toward global domination, creating the world’s first skin-suits and masks to infiltrate the leadership castes of human tribes. Using hide and crude tools of flint and bone, our ancestors pioneered new methods of disguise that would come to define an entire species...”

Gears whirr inside the animatronic Lizardman as it pivots and points towards a glass case displaying shattered stone knifes, bone needles and what looks like a leathery, desiccated mask.

Ah. That’s right. The Lizardman Heritage Center. This must be the prehistory exhibit.

“Hey!”

You look left. Mandrake Kayne is crouching behind a display case and glaring at you. “Over here before the camera sees you!” he hisses.

You look up. An antiquated surveillance camera with brass-rimmed lenses and clicking gears is rotating back and forth.

“Oh,” you whisper. “Oh!” You...slink? Dash? Scamper?

You scamper over to Kayne and crouch next to him.

“I’ve played games like this before,” you whisper. “Now all we need to find is a cardboard box, and we’ll—”

“The auction,” Mandrake Kayne rasps, cutting you off. “Where is it?”

How should I know, you want to say?

Instead of saying that, you let your gaze drift across the room to a stack of brochure maps, displayed in a plastic box across the room.

“Striboga,” you whisper, picking up an old rusted thumbtack from the carpeted ground. You picture a swirl of spell-code in your head, making a small, small tweak to a single sequence of logic. “Striboga Version_2,” you mutter, flicking your hand and tossing the nail outward.

The thumbtack flies across the room, a barely perceptible black speck (that the CCTV system hopefully won’t catch). It bounces off the brochure sheets and falls to the ground, completely inert.

“What are...?” Mandrake starts to ask.

You raise your hand. “Shhh.” You crook your index and ring fingers in a beckoning gesture.

The brochure shimmers with a faint blue air and slowly slips out of its plastic case. It flutters to the ground, an invisible breeze slowly carrying it through the air...and into your outstretched hand.

“Good,” you say with relief. “That worked.” You focus your will, drawing your spell out of the brochure and back into the depths of your mind before magical overflowed sets the paper on fire. You snap the map open, eyes scanning the laminated folds for the information you need.

You tap your finger against the map, pointing to a wide-open space in the diagram for the first floor labeled Grand Ballroom.

“There,” you tell Kayne. “That’s where the auction’s happening. I’d bet my life on it.”

It could be that you have, Diesel.

“It could be that you have,” Mandrake Kayne rumbles under his breath.

...I said it first.

Next Chapter: Episode Nine: Choice Cuts (Revised)