“I already told you, I’m no longer in this business! ”
“Come on, man. You gotta do this for me—for him.” Matt gestured at Solan, who was still trying to look like he belonged in a tattoo parlor. “I swear this is the last time I’m asking you for help. Remember? We’re more than brothers.”
“Cousins,” the man corrected flatly. “We’re cousins .”
The shop on Vireo Street was a narrow corridor of chrome lamps, ink jars, and faint antiseptic haze. The so-called Puppeteer didn’t look like anyone’s criminal mastermind. Just a wiry guy in his thirties, arms sleeved with clockwork designs that moved when he flexed his fingers, like the gears beneath the skin still wanted to turn. The smell of disinfectant and ink clung to the air, sharp as regret.
The Puppeteer peeled off his gloves, dropped them in the bin. “You want miracles? Try a church. You want Kamuy augmentation? Try a hospital. You want me to puppeteer another body—” he shook his head “—find someone who still sleeps through the night.”
Matt blinked. “That bad?”
The man laughed once, no humor in it. “Last kid I linked with, I saw something I shouldn’t have. Didn’t even know what it was, just… wrong. Like the air itself looked back.” He rubbed at the inside of his wrist, where the veins met the ink. “Haven’t touched a neural tether since.”
Solan shifted. “What happened to him?”
The Puppeteer gave a small, crooked smile. “He walked away. I didn’t.”
That killed the conversation for a beat. “Listen, cousin,” he said.“Why don’t you take your friend to a relic shop? You’ll find all the help you need there.”
Matt scowled. “The Severance? Aurichen? What do we look like—trust-fund kids?”
“Hey, you came for my help.” The Puppeteer was already turning back to his counter, rifling through a drawer of metallic cards that definitely weren’t credit. “I used to go to Aurichen a lot. They’ve got an open sale wing. Haven’t been in a while, but this card should still work.”
Matt frowned. “What are we talking about? You know we can’t afford anything there.”
The Puppeteer shrugged. “Sure. But at least they’ve got an open bar.”
Matt’s eyes lit up instantly. “Open bar, you said.”
—
Outside, the air had that sour chill that made everything look slightly regretful. Matt tucked the card into his jacket like it might self-destruct. “Well,” he said, “so much for divine intervention.”
“So that’s it? I’m on my own?”
“Technically, you were always on your own.” Matt started walking. “He just confirmed it with professional phrasing.”
They crossed Vireo Street—neon bleeding into puddles, delivery drones whining overhead. Solan kept his hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched. The thought of the match pressed on him like a bruise. Herman’s grin. The black blade’s weight. The memory of losing before even starting.
“Relax,” Matt said, catching the look. “We’ll find another plan. Worst case, you die beautifully. People love a martyr arc.”
Solan didn’t answer.
“Hey,” Matt added, “at least there’s an open bar.”
“Yeah . I’ll toast my own funeral.”
“That’s the spirit.”
They followed the card’s address, winding through side streets that looked more expensive the quieter they got. Solan kept thinking he should turn back, go train, do something useful —but the idea of walking back into the dorm and staring at his blade felt worse.
By the time they found the door—a single dark-wood panel wedged between a florist and a watch repair shop—they already looked like trouble. Matt squinted at the brass plate. AURICHEN.
“That’s it?” Solan asked.
“Apparently.”
They stood there, both of them damp, underdressed, and very aware of it. Solan’s sneakers squeaked. Matt’s hoodie had a ramen stain shaped like a country that didn’t exist. “Think they’ll notice?” Solan murmured.
“Notice? We want them to notice,” Matt said, straightening his collar like a man about to bluff God. “Trust-fund rebellion. We’re rich kids pretending we’re not. Whole aesthetic now.”
“Right, right” Solan said. “Performance art.”
“Exactly. Act jaded. Like you’re sick of yachts.” He pushed the door open before Solan could respond.
The bell clicked , mechanical and deliberate. Inside wasn’t a lobby but a courtyard—open to the sky, walled in by ivy and brick. A single attendant, uniform crisp enough to cut paper. He inclined his head and said, “Welcome back, gentlemen.”
They both nodded—too quickly, too politely—and crossed the courtyard. Another door waited ahead, brass-framed and heavy. Someone pulled it open.
Light.
White, gold, and endless—like stepping from an alley into heaven. The interior stretched upward without logic or gravity, a cathedral of modern stone and air. No columns, no visible walls—just spiraling balconies vanishing into shadow.
The air hummed faintly, alive with something electrical. Somewhere, strings were playing—no melody, just a single note that sounded expensive, too expensive.
The floor was mirror-bright, every reflection half a second late, as if light itself hesitated. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Solan whispered, “What was that? They didn’t even card us.”
Matt blinked, still staring at the space she’d left. “How’m I supposed to know? Maybe they’ve got, like… invisible scanners. Or psychic valet service. Shit, I have no idea.”
Solan could feel the weight of the place pressing on his skin—like every polished surface knew he didn’t belong. He’d thought the nerves would fade once they got inside. They didn’t. They just evolved from what if they stop us to why they didn’t, and everyone already tell anyway.
They stood there like two drops of water that had wandered onto a tray of pearls—out of place, faintly embarrassing—while the flow of silk and cologne parted cleanly around them. No one spared them a glance.
Matt’s jaw tightened, barely visible. He gave Solan a small gesture—downstairs.
The entrance to the lower level yawned like a silent beast. Marble steps glimmered with a cold, surgical sheen, winding downward toward a pool of soft amber light, something that breathed like a separate world.
Solan drew in a breath and approached the attendant standing exactly where shadow met glow. His voice dipped on instinct. “Excuse me, is this the way to the open sale?”
The man nodded—precise, mechanical, like a gear clicking into place. “Yes, sir.” A pause, his eyes tracing over them with the chill of spider-silk. “May I see your card?”
Solan glanced at Matt. Matt gave a helpless shrug—half surrender, half whatever happens, happens —and handed over the member card. The attendant’s smile appeared with ruler-straight symmetry: standard, sterile, warmth-free. “No, sir. I meant your settlement account.”
For a split second, the air stilled. Solan blinked, throat drying. “We… were just planning to browse.”
The female attendant beside him offered a smile soldered onto her face, unmoving. “Of course, sir. This is a routine liquidity check. No charges will be made before you initiate a purchase. The open bar downstairs is also available to you at any time.” Her words flowed with the ease of a pre-recorded announcement, every syllable edged with policy, unarguable.
Heat climbed Solan’s neck. He hesitated, then opened his wallet and pulled out his card. Matte black. No logo on the front. He had to resist the urge to wipe his thumb across it.
He remembered how the First Elysion Bank staff had been almost aggressively patient with him, like he was walking into a private lounge instead of opening a student account. Too many smiles. Too much reassurance. For a second he’d felt like he was stepping into a trap.
But the offer was hard to walk away from: a $500 credit line just for opening an account.
“Please wait a moment.” The attendant pinched the card between gloved fingers and slipped back into the shadows. Her footsteps vanished into the carpet as if the floor swallowed sound by design.
Solan murmured, “We should’ve bailed. My credit’s a joke. They’re gonna toss us out.”
Only then did Matt lean close. What even was that card?”
“I don’t know,” Solan muttered, more unsteady than he meant to sound. “Just a basic First Elysion Bank card. The employees there were… weird.”
“First Elysion Bank, huh?” Matt raised a brow. “Was that a metal card?”
“Titanium, maybe. I don’t know.”
Solan paused. Something was off. The lighting—brighter than before, harsh as surgical lamps. The room—quiet, but with pressure building under the quiet, like a held breath spreading through glass and champagne. No one was looking at them, yet the air felt thick, expectant, as though the entire floor were waiting for something to resolve.
The attendant reappeared first—silent as a crease in the air. But this time she wasn’t alone.
An older man walked beside her, hair silvering at the edges, suit pressed with the kind of precision that made it feel less like clothing and more like ceremonial armor. Yet his demeanor was strangely gentle, softened by decades spent negotiating with people who owned entire skylines. He didn’t look like management. He looked like the foundation stone of an ancient bank—steady, quiet, impossible to read.
“My apologies, sir.” He offered a small bow, calibrated to the millimeter. Polite enough to disarm, low enough to make Solan’s pulse hitch for reasons he couldn’t name. “She’s new. Taking your card out of sight was improper. I’ve reminded her. It won’t happen again without your permission.”
The female attendant stepped forward and presented the card back with both hands, head dipped lower than the old man's had been—a degree of deference that felt almost architectural.
Solan blinked, off balance. He’d braced for a reprimand, not this… velvet wall of courtesy. “It’s fine,” he said quickly. Then, a beat later—an instinctive honesty he couldn’t quite suppress: “There isn’t much money in that account anyway.”
A faint smile touched the old man’s face, the kind elders saved for young people pretending not to drown. His gaze lingered on Solan—on the slightly oversized shirt, the travel-wrinkled sleeves, the pants that didn’t quite sit right. “You’ve been on the road, haven’t you? Your clothes are a bit worn, not fitted to your frame.” His tone was kind, but it landed too precisely. “If you like, we have a tailor upstairs. He can adjust a jacket for you. Aurichen prefers our guests to feel comfortable—like coming home.”
“No—no, that’s okay.” Solan’s hands came up fast, almost defensive. He’d learned the hard way that sugar-coated services were just traps wearing silk gloves.
“Of course.” The old man nodded, accommodating without a crack in his smile. “As you wish.” Then he shifted effortlessly, voice smoothing into a different script. “We’re also holding a small auction upstairs tonight. Very fine pieces. If you’re curious, I’d be happy to escort you personally. You might find something… unexpected.”
Solan froze for half a second. Right—so that was what this was. The warmth, the respect, the excessive gentleness. They’d mistaken him for some eccentric young heir slumming it with a friend. Every word was a polished hook, dipped in honey. He gave up on clarifying anything. Instead, he shrugged and forced a crooked grin. “Appreciate it, but we’re really just here for the open bar.”
A thin membrane in the air—pressure, expectation—seemed to puncture with that single line. The old man’s smile warmed, this time with a glint of actual recognition, like he’d finally pegged them correctly. “Of course. Our selection downstairs is quite popular. I hope it won’t disappoint.”
He stepped aside with impeccable grace, opening the passage to the lower level. The gesture itself was a quiet dismissal—polite, complete. “If you need anything,” he said, “speak to any handler. I have notified them your arrival”
Solan murmured his thanks and followed Matt down the stairs. The amber light pooled up to meet them, soft and warm, drawing them deeper. On the last step, something tugged at him. He turned back. The old man still stood there, smiling the same perfect smile—statue-still.
The light dimmed as they descended, as if something down here had swallowed it whole.
At the end of the corridor, the floor opened into a wide chamber washed in amber glow—warm, viscous, almost biological, like the slow pulse of a creature’s inner organ. The air shifted too: sharp alcohol, sweet rot from old wood, and a faint, metallic tang that felt disturbingly alive. It slid into Solan’s lungs with a kind of ominous invitation.
Matt spotted the curved bar first. His eyes went bright—desert-wanderer meeting a mirage—and he practically lunged for it, palm slapping the polished counter with an unnecessarily loud smack. “Your most expensive drink,” he declared.
Then, with theatrical defiance，“—whatever that means.” The words bounced around the quiet space, earning a brief freeze from the vest-clad bartender. His professional smile flickered, like a glitch.
Matt had fully abandoned the “rebellious trust-fund brat” persona he’d insisted they commit to—though maybe collapsing bonelessly onto a barstool counted as method acting. He looked utterly at home, like this was just another night in his messy kitchen, not a place where a single bottle probably cost more than their semester rent combined.
Solan lingered a step behind him. The warmth stopped at the bar. Beyond it, the room shifted.
The cases weren't arranged along the walls the way a shop would arrange them. They stood in the middle of the room—tall, freestanding, reaching toward the ceiling with the self-possession of things that had always been here and intended to remain. Each one was sealed, upright, the contents suspended inside on mounts or thin support arms: a warped length of metal that had no obvious function; a pale, dried specimen that begged not to be identified; a container of fluid that refused to commit to any single color, shifting as the light shifted. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. Yet the space carried a low, contained pressure, as if something inside each case had once known how to scream and had simply been sealed mid-syllable.
Solan became aware of it then—the way attention travels in expensive rooms. And he felt a gaze settling on him. She was already approaching. A smile appeared instantly—perfect curve, precise angle, as if lifted frame-by-frame from a training video. "Is there anything I can assist you with, sir?"
He glanced around. There were other people here—well-dressed, self-possessed, moving with the ease of belonging. Why me? he thought. Why am I the one who gets picked?
"I'm just browsing," he said.
"Of course." Her smile held, flawless and measured. "While the auction upstairs features rarer pieces, everything here is of exceptional quality. Most of our inventory is fabricated from DRO extracted in Auldrok."
Auldrok. He'd heard the name before—attached to headlines about resource negotiations and defense contracts. He knew only the broad strokes: anything even remotely tied to the Draconic Factor could be marketed under one convenient word—Relic. He wasn't even sure whether Stabilin counted.
She must have caught the hesitation. "Auldrok is the largest Draconic Residual Ore deposit in the world," she continued smoothly. "It also holds the highest residual Draconic Factor density currently recorded. Lockhart maintains one of the most stable extraction rights there."
Lockhart, he knew. The largest relic supplier on the planet. Department of Defense contracts. Enforcement Bureau procurement. Every year during Long Watch, they were among the first to sponsor containment and recovery operations.
"I'm just browsing," he realized he had repeated.
"As you wish."
She raised her hand—a small, unhurried gesture, directed at nothing in particular. To his left, a section of wall responded. What he'd taken for dark wood paneling separated from itself with a soft mechanical exhale, sliding outward to reveal a shallow recess behind it—a tray, mounted flush, as if the wall had always contained it. He looked again at the surrounding surface. Even gaps. Identical spacing.
The entire perimeter, floor to ceiling, composed of the same sealed drawers—hundreds of them, indistinguishable until opened. Solan wasn't sure if it was her Kamuy or a proximity sensor. He wasn't sure he wanted to ask.
"These have been quite popular lately." On the tray sat a row of rings, set in pale gold and darker alloys, each with a faint marbled texture in the band—too subtle to be decorative, too deliberate to be accidental. "A trace infusion of DRO during forging. We source exclusively from certified Lockhart extraction batches."
She let the name land for a moment.
"Clients say it brings a certain… alignment."
Solan looked at the rings. They were beautiful, in the way expensive things always managed to be. The handler seemed to read something in his expression—not interest, exactly, but the shape of hesitation—and reached into the tray, drawing out one ring in particular. Black band, dark stone, the DRO marbling caught in the metal like a vein of something old.
"This is from our Scorpion series." She held it out with two fingers. "Utility tier. Starting price, ten thousand."
Solan took it on reflex. The moment the number registered, something in his grip went loose. He fumbled, barely caught it, and stood there for a half-second that lasted much longer than it should have. He returned the ring with as much composure as he could manufacture. "I'm not really looking for jewelry."
"Of course." She received it without comment. The tray slid back into the wall. No offense. No adjustment.
She moved on with the ease of someone who had expected that answer and already decided what came next. Another section of wall opened—this one lower, deeper. Inside, fixed in a matte black lattice mount, sat a card: slim, dark, no larger than his palm. Nothing printed on the front. A single embossed line on the back that he couldn't read from this angle.
"Guardian Invocation Card," she said. "Snap activation. Deploys a shield-bearing shadow construct—stationary defense, rated for approximately five minutes of sustained engagement before structural collapse." A brief pause. "Single-use. Fifty thousand."
Solan suddenly felt the pull of the open bar.
"Utility tier,” she continued, without acknowledging the look on his face. "Calibrated by an Aurichen-certified Kamuy-bearer. We stock primarily for corporate security clients and private protection details." A faint tilt of her head. "Although collector interest has increased considerably in the last quarter."
"I don't really need that," he said.
The recess closed.
He wasn't sure what to say. A moment ago he'd been looking at overpriced jewelry. Now he was standing in front of something that was undeniably, uncomplicatedly real. The kind of real that made him aware, suddenly, of exactly how unprepared he was to be standing in this room.
"In that case," she said, "this may be of interest." She moved. He followed without meaning to.
At the far end of the room, away from the bar and the freestanding cases, a single object occupied its own mount against the wall—full-length, lit from above in a way that felt almost reverential. The bow was pale, nearly bone-white, with a faint grain running through the limbs like something organic had been compressed and refined into this shape over a long time. The reinforcement lattice traced along the spine of it in thin dark lines, just visible beneath the surface.
"Drakebone Composite Bow." Her voice, for the first time, carried something that wasn't entirely practiced—the smallest trace of professional appreciation, or something close to it. "Primary material sourced from drakespawn skeletal remains. Tier III, highland variant. DRO reinforcement lattice throughout. Commissioned for elite hunting use." She tilted her head slightly. "Artifact tier. Three hundred thousand." A beat. "Aurichen does not sell arrowheads."
Solan found it slightly difficult to breathe. He looked at his reflection in the sealed glass of the mount. For a moment, he almost lied again.
"I'm looking for…" He hesitated. "…something that boosts Kamuy response."
She wasn’t surprised. If anything, she moved too quickly—gliding across the room in a soundless arc, leaving the bar behind her like she’d always been on her way to him. “Of course, sir.” Her voice was warm water, practiced and soothing. “Are you looking for amplification-type relics, or a stabilizer variant?”
Solan stalled. He’d expected her to laugh, or redirect, or give him the polite “please leave” smile. Not this surgical efficiency. “Uh…” His tongue felt dry. His mind scrambled for a term that didn’t make him sound like a total amateur.
“Anything that can increase… short-term output.”
“Output.” A word he’d only ever used in games and forum arguments, pretending he knew what he was talking about.
She bowed her head slightly. “In that case, sir, I would recommend the auction upstairs. They’re displaying several augmentation-class items tonight.”
Solan’s stomach dipped. It sounded like a polite translation of You can’t afford it anyway. He lowered his voice. “I’m just asking. Can you… give me a ballpark? How much would something like that cost?”
The handler paused—a small, startled hitch, as if he’d asked the price of oxygen. “How much?”
He nodded, embarrassed. “I just want to know if it’s even realistic. So I don’t get my hopes up.”
For a moment—just a flicker—her expression almost slipped. Then she recovered, smiling again, gentler this time.
“Sir… items of that tier do not have a listed price. The bidding is only a formality. If you’re interested, the piece will be reserved for you.”
Solan blinked. “…What does that mean?”
“If you place a bid, no one else will.”
He wanted to laugh. He wanted to say I think you have the wrong person , which was true, and had been true since the front door, and was somehow more humiliating now than it had been then. He said neither.
"…I'll think about it."
The words came out flat, safe, and completely unconvincing.
“Of course.” She bowed. “Aurichen would never waste an important client’s time.”
Her departure was as smooth as her arrival—too smooth. “Please wait. I’ll inform the staff upstairs to prepare your seat.”
She vanished toward the staircase, steps dissolving into the carpet. Solan stood there wondering which part of the conversation he’d botched so catastrophically.
Matt appeared beside him with a second drink already in hand. “Bro, what was that? You try to get her number and now she’s calling security?”