Carter took his place at the massive wooden table, his face obscured by a mask that matched the grim silence of the room. At the front, a man stood framed by a flickering screen. He was tall and lean, dressed in a black suit tailored with the sharp, regal precision of a high-court Duke. His silky black hair caught the light, and his blue eyes scanned the room with predatory calm. A single glove covered his right hand; his left rested atop a silver-headed cane.
"Welcome, welcome, ladies and gentlemen," the man purred. "I am truly honored by your presence."
Ron scanned the room. Twenty-two men and eleven women sat around the table, all masked, all silent. His gaze lingered on a trio of women: one with hair like midnight, another with tresses of shock-white, and a third, a striking blonde. A prickle of recognition danced at the back of his mind, but the connection refused to take shape.
"We all know the purpose of tonight's assembly," the host continued. "The exchange of packages."
Packages? Ron thought, leaning toward Khain. "What exactly are they trading?" he whispered.
"Anything with a price," Khain replied, his voice barely audible. "Narcotics, organs, forbidden data. Take your pick."
Ron nodded, but a sudden weight settled in his gut. He felt a gaze—heavy and intentional—drilling into him. Searching the room, he locked eyes with a man across the table. The man's eyes were a piercing, unnatural green. He didn't look away immediately; instead, he offered a thin, knowing smile before finally turning his head.
"Green Eyes," Ron muttered. Who is that? And what the hell am I even doing here?
"Ladies and gentlemen," the host announced, "the first item on our docket: a magnifying glass."
Ron's heart skipped. His eyes widened as the screen illuminated, displaying the exact tool he had used for years—the one currently supposed to be in Bruce's possession.
"This piece is unique," the host explained, gesturing to the image. "It grants the wielder the power of dimensional travel and access to the higher planes. It is a key to the many artifacts of the old world. Shall we begin the bidding?"
The room erupted. Almost every paddle in the room went up, save for Ron's and the Green-Eyed man's.
"The demand is high! Let us open the floor at 10 DOC," the man shouted.
"What's a 'DOC'?" Akira whispered, leaning in.
"The shadow currency," Ron said, his voice tight. "One DOC is equivalent to one billion USD."
Akira's jaw dropped. "How long has this been going on?"
"Longer than I've been around," Ron replied darkly. "Before I ever met Carter or any of you."
"SOLD! For fifty DOC!" the host's voice rang out like a gunshot.
Ron stared at the screen, his blood cold. That's mine. They just sold my life for fifty billion dollars.
The auction blurred into a fever dream of impossible objects. Artifacts with world-ending potential were traded under the guise of symbols and three-digit codes—111, 222, 333. Carter sat like a statue, waiting. Finally, the host's demeanor shifted.
"And now, the moment ninety-nine percent of you have been waiting for," the man said, a wide, serrated grin splitting his face. "The final item: The Concealment."
The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. Slumped shoulders straightened; grips tightened on bidding paddles.
"The opening bid is five hundred and fifty DOC."
"One hundred thousand!" someone barked.
"Two hundred thousand!" another countered.
The numbers became astronomical, a frenzy of wealth that defied logic. Throughout the chaos, Carter and the Green-Eyed man remained silent. Then, a woman with short black hair and a sharp pencil skirt raised her paddle—number 1.
"Five billion DOC," she said calmly.
The room went dead silent. Even the host paused, his eyes flickering briefly toward Ron.
Why is he looking at me? Ron wondered. Beside him, he felt Carter's posture shift; he had noticed the look, too.
"Sold," the host whispered into the silence. "Our winner is Lady Number One. Thank you all for attending. Would the victor please join me in Room Z?"
As the crowd began to disperse, Carter approached Ron, shaking his head. "Ron, do you recognize anyone in there?"
"Maybe," Ron said, looking toward the exit. "But through the masks? It's impossible."
"Right. Let's get back to the mission," Carter said, heading for the doors.
Ron followed, his mind racing. "Why did we even come here, Carter?"
"I wanted you to see the scale of what we're up against," Carter replied. "The bidding location moves every time. This time, they requested our base. I couldn't say no without raising suspicion."
Ron nodded, but the unease wouldn't leave him. He stepped out onto a balcony, craving the bite of fresh air. Above, a flock of eagles circled the darkening sky. To his surprise, one of the birds broke formation, diving toward him. Ron instinctively extended his arm, and the raptor landed with heavy, taloned precision.
"Eagles are strange creatures," Ron mused, looking into its golden eyes.
"Ron," a voice hissed in his ear.
Ron jumped, looking around. "Yes? Who's there?"
"Ron, listen to me, you fool."
Ron stared at the bird on his arm. Its beak didn't move, but the voice was unmistakable, vibrating through his very bones.
"I'm the eagle," the bird "said." "It's me. Yardy."
"Yardy? Why are you a bird?" Ron stammered.
"There's no time for that," Yardy replied, his golden eyes fixed on Ron's. "There is something you need to know."