The opulent drawing-room, usually a sanctuary of refined elegance, seemed to shrink under the weight of the news. Every gilded frame and polished surface felt oppressive, the room itself holding its breath. Eiser, the man whose presence could command silence in a ballroom, was frozen, his dark eyes fixed on the aide who had just delivered a revelation capable of toppling his world.
"Serena was... what?" The words slipped out in a low, dangerous rumble, slicing through the heavy air like a blade. There was no tremor in his tone—yet the underlying threat was unmistakable.
The aide's face, pale and tense, betrayed a mixture of fear and guilt. "Someone took her? What's that supposed to mean?" Eiser's composure, normally unshakable, showed cracks. His jaw tightened, and his hands curled into fists. "She's never been in any danger in the course of collecting art. But if I had to hazard a guess..." The aide hesitated, swallowing hard, his eyes darting away from Eiser's piercing gaze.
The words, when they came, tumbled out in a nervous rush. "...we found some suspicious money and another painting in a piece that was purchased recently. Perhaps the kidnapping is related to that..."
The room seemed to still, the words hanging like a venomous cloud, thick and suffocating. Eiser's brow furrowed, disbelief giving way to the first flickers of anger. "Suspicious money... and another painting?" His voice was sharp, incredulous, the sort of sharp edge that cut through loyalty and fear alike.
"Yes," the aide said, steadier now, as though repeating facts aloud gave him some control over the chaos. "There was a stack of bills and another rare painting hidden in the frame of the one we'd won at auction, so I was making inquiries about it." His shoulders slumped, weighed down by responsibility and a sense of delayed confession. "I'm sorry for not telling you sooner, sir, but Lady Serena ordered me to investigate discreetly..."
Eiser absorbed the information, his mind a storm of connections and conjectures. Hidden money. A secret painting. Serena's sudden disappearance. Each piece was a fragment, but together they formed a puzzle with stakes higher than art or wealth—stakes that touched the very safety of his household.
The time for hesitation had passed. His hands slammed down on the desk, the CLACK reverberating like a gavel of command, cutting the air in the room. "All right. You and Caesar contact the police," he ordered, his voice leaving no room for delay.
His instructions followed—sharp, precise, and urgent. "Have them start investigating to determine the exact location where the kidnapping took place, the direction the car headed in, and any potential witnesses who may have seen the abductors. Also, track Serena's car immediately."
"YES, SIR!" The aide's response was immediate, unwavering. Another voice, presumably Caesar, echoed in confirmation: "YES, SIR EISER!"
Even in the midst of chaos, Eiser could not ignore the fragile state of his mother. His voice softened, a rare glimpse of vulnerability breaking through the storm of authority. "And..." He paused, the weight of worry in his tone. "...ensure that Iansa doesn't hear about this. The news will only worsen her health."
Miles away, under the cloak of a cold, moonless night, a car tore along an unpaved road, its engine a loud, anxious heartbeat against the silence of the wilderness. Serena, a captive in the back seat, had already been carried far from the safety of her home. Her disappearance marked the beginning of a dangerous dance of greed, secrecy, and peril—a convergence of rare art, hidden money, and intentions dark enough to shadow even the brightest light.
---
The car lurched violently over uneven terrain, jarring Serena against the seat as the headlights of a distant, unseen world cut in brief, fleeting flashes across the interior. Darkness pressed in from all sides, heavy and suffocating, yet her mind remained sharp, alert to every detail. Her face, partially obscured in the shadows, was a mask of cold fury and careful calculation, eyes flicking to every movement, every hint of sound.
The car on the left—its headlights just barely visible—wasn't that of her guards. Whoever was driving it, she realized, was in collusion with the kidnapper. Her pulse quickened, but not in panic—her mind raced.
We've driven far too deep into the countryside already, she reasoned. Even if I somehow managed to open the door and jump, the accomplices would be waiting. And even checking the locks confirmed her worst fears: she was trapped.
A surge of grim determination stiffened her resolve. I have to wait for the right moment… after they let me out. That's when I can make my move.
Even as the weight of captivity settled over her, her thoughts drifted back to a memory—a sun-drenched afternoon, a balcony framed in marble and ivy, a golden sunset spilling over the manicured gardens. She remembered the conversation with Frederick, a man whose presence had always been steady, his calm a counterpoint to her restless caution.
"Hey, Frederick," she had begun, tone serious, voice carrying just the faintest tremor of anxiety. "What if..."
Frederick had turned toward her, concern furrowing his brow. The sunlight had caught the glint in his eyes, sharp and green, assessing, protective. Serena had stood there, dark hair pinned back, her deep green dress catching the light, her expression troubled.
"...I'm ever in danger while you're not around? Although you stick close to me whenever you can… realistically, you can't be with me every single minute."
Frederick's gaze held hers, steady and piercing. "What is it that you're afraid of exactly?"
Her voice had dropped to a whisper, as if saying it aloud might make it real. "What if I'm kidnapped? Taken somewhere isolated… and killed… made to look like an accident."
She had leaned against the balcony railing, looking out over the sunlit grounds, the breeze tousling her hair. "If that ever happens, isn't there some way to make sure you can find me?"
Frederick had paused, thoughtful, hands resting behind his back. The sunlight glinted off the marble around him, and a moment of quiet stretched between them.
"Hmm… Leave behind as many traces as possible," he had said.
"Traces?" she had asked, a spark of clarity igniting in her mind.
And now, bouncing along the dark, lonely road, that conversation surged back into her consciousness with sudden, urgent relevance. Traces. She wasn't without options. Not yet. The survival plan they had once discussed, hypothetically and almost playfully, was no longer an abstract exercise—it was her lifeline.
Even in the dark, her mind was plotting, analyzing every possibility, every way she could use the knowledge Frederick had given her. Hope flickered, stubborn and defiant, in the shadows of captivity. She had a plan. And for the first time in hours, she allowed herself to believe she might still act on it.
The memory of Frederick's instructions replayed with crystalline clarity in Serena's mind, a lifeline of cold logic in the midst of her suffocating predicament.
"Things like the hairpin you're wearing, a ring, a necklace, a handkerchief, your shoes, the buttons of your clothing," Frederick had enumerated, his tone calm, precise, almost clinical. "Shreds of your clothing would be even better."
She remembered how he had leaned slightly closer, emphasizing the importance of details that might seem trivial. "Torn pieces of cloth are more likely to stay wherever you drop them for a long period of time. And if you're wearing perfume, transfer the scent onto the cloth as much as possible before tossing it. I and everyone close to you knows which perfume you use, so one of us will be able to figure out what happened that much quicker."
He had been right, as always.
Everyone at the manor will soon know I've been kidnapped, Serena thought, her chest tightening at the image of Eiser's determined gaze.
So the only thing I can do right now… is leave traces.
Her hands moved with quiet, deliberate precision despite the tight confines of the car and the restraints she had suspected they might impose. Fingers, hidden in the shadows along the door panel, fumbled with her attire.
A subtle, almost imperceptible motion—SLIP—and she detached a piece of jewelry: her red rose earring, gleaming faintly even in the darkness, a striking ornament transformed into a tool of survival.
Then, seizing a moment of chaos as the car hit a rough patch in the road, she acted. TOSS. The earring and a cuff button disappeared into the night through the narrow crack in the window, tiny markers of her passage that might one day lead the way to her rescue.
The car hurtled onward, the engine roaring against the unpaved road, flanked by the dark silhouette of another vehicle carrying her captors. But behind them, a delicate white object—perhaps a handkerchief or scarf—landed softly with a muted PLOP. It settled against the uneven ground, carrying with it the faint scent of her perfume, a desperate breadcrumb in the shadowy wilderness.
Meanwhile, in the gleaming, cavernous expanse of the manor, Eiser moved with the controlled urgency of a man accustomed to command, the gold light from the massive chandelier reflecting off the polished surfaces around him. Reports were arriving in a flurry, aides rushing to deliver news that might spell life or death.
"SIR EISER!" one of the aides called, his voice sharp with discovery, echoing off the walls. "I just spoke to someone at Slitswan Auction House on the phone."
Eiser looked up, his face an unreadable mask of concentration, yet the sharp line of his jaw betrayed the weight of his thoughts. "What did you learn?"
"Lady Serena went to bid on the painting Moon Halo by Hussen, an artist from the 1840s… but the auction was suddenly canceled, so she left immediately."
"Canceled?" Eiser repeated, his mind already parsing the implications. Major auctions were rarely, if ever, canceled at the last minute. That anomaly confirmed what he had feared: her disappearance was not a random act of violence, but a premeditated, calculated move—likely connected to the secrets she had been uncovering in the world of rare art.
Far behind the speeding vehicles, the traces Serena had begun to leave remained scattered across the shadowed countryside. Yet Eiser, unaware of their exact location, was already following the first threads of logic she had unknowingly laid, drawing closer with each passing report to the path she had started to mark in her flight.
Eiser stood over the vast expanse of polished mahogany, the weight of the chandelier's warm, golden light casting long shadows across the room. His dark eyes bore into the aide, who fidgeted under his intense scrutiny, trying to convey information that seemed to unravel the very fabric of the evening.
"The auction for Hussen's Moon Halo… it was canceled just as Lady Serena arrived?" Eiser repeated, his voice low, taut with disbelief, the single word canceled hanging in the air like a threat.
The aide swallowed, nodding. "Yes… according to Slitswan, the painting's owner decided at the last minute not to put it up for auction." His hands gestured vaguely toward the chandelier, whose glow now seemed almost mocking against the grim reality.
Eiser leaned forward, hand flat against the cool marble, his mind already weaving connections. "Do we have any information on the owner? And… do such last-minute cancellations occur often?"
The aide shuffled through his notes, flipping pages with careful fingers. "I'll need to review the painting's provenance for complete details," he said, his voice measured. "But the most recent owner appears to be an individual—Slitswan referred to them only as 'Han.'"
PROVENANCE: The recorded history of the ownership and custody of a painting or other work of art put up for auction.
Eiser's gaze darkened, absorbing the significance. The aide continued, now explaining the rarity of such a sudden withdrawal. "It's not impossible to remove an item from auction at the last minute, sir… but it almost never happens. Unless there's a catastrophic reason—like the item being a forgery—the owner would face a hefty fine for calling off an auction so late. They'd also be penalized in future auctions."
The pieces clicked into place in Eiser's mind, cold and inevitable. The meticulous logic he had cultivated over years of managing the manor, overseeing business dealings, and navigating high-stakes negotiations now snapped into focus.
"Then today's auction… it was a trap," he said, voice low but deadly certain, the syllables deliberate. "A lure, specifically to draw Sera—my wife—into their scheme." He let the familiar nickname escape, a brief, almost tender acknowledgment amidst the storm of analysis.
Eiser's eyes sharpened, narrowing with precision. "The owner is Han, a renowned art collector. The consignor must be Han's agent, acting on their behalf. Every detail fits."
He began pacing, hands clasped behind his back, each step measured, deliberate. The desk and documents, scattered with investigative notes, bore silent witness to his relentless mind at work. "Most plausible scenario," he murmured, pacing like a predator circling its prey, "is that they were laundering money… or conducting illegal business using artwork as a cover. And Sera… she was kidnapped as retaliation because her activities unknowingly disrupted their scheme."
His gaze swept across the documents: the auction notes on the painting Serena had previously won, the one with the hidden bills and second rare canvas, the puzzle pieces of a crime that had begun months before but now intersected with the present catastrophe.
Eiser paused, absorbing a single, troubling thought. His expression darkened as the weight of uncertainty pressed down. "The problem… whether or not they know that Sera is really Serena Serenity."
The implications were immediate and chilling. If they were aware of her identity, their demands would be astronomical—political influence, wealth, and leverage beyond imagination. If not… they were still dangerous, likely panicked over their compromised operations, and therefore unpredictable. Either way, he was up against intelligent, resourceful, and ruthless opponents. And time… time was slipping like sand through his fingers.
Eiser's eyes finally settled, narrowing with cold clarity. He had a suspect. One name above all: Han, the art collector.
Eiser's mind moved with ruthless efficiency, the pieces of the puzzle forming a clear image: Serena's kidnapping, the canceled auction, the suspicious painting, the hidden money—all of it pointing to one central motive. Revenge, retaliation, and clandestine dealings in the rarefied world of high-end art. And at the center of it all, one name: Han.
He turned to his aide, Raul, eyes sharp, commanding attention. "First things first, Raul. Find out the source of that suspicious painting and the money hidden in its frame." He gestured toward the dossier lying on the desk—the one with images revealing the concealed bills and the second rare canvas. "Sui has already gathered some information herself, so look for any connection she might have uncovered."
Raul straightened, nodding briskly. "Yes, Sir."
"Oh, in that case…" Raul hesitated, glancing at the notes, "should I do some digging on the collector named Han as well? The person at Slitswan said he's well-known in the art world, so I should be able to—"
Eiser's sharp tone cut him off, each word precise and decisive. "I have a quicker and surer way of finding that out. I'll handle it myself. You focus on that painting." He punctuated the command with a CLACK of his hand on the desk, a sound that carried the weight of finality.
Raul blinked, momentarily startled by the sudden shift in command. "Ah… Yes, Sir!" he said, his voice edged with curiosity and the faintest tinge of concern. A quicker and surer way? he wondered silently, sensing the gravity behind Eiser's certainty.
The Unlikely Call
Eiser moved away from the desk, steps deliberate, eyes fixed on the gleam of his phone. Its distinct RING RING cut through the otherwise silent manor, echoing faintly off the marble floors. Without hesitation, he lifted the receiver. CLICK.
"Well, this is a surprise," he said, his voice calm yet tinged with urgency. "I didn't expect to receive a call from you, Leinz… especially at this hour."
There was no time for idle conversation. He wasted none. "There's something I'd like you to confirm regarding today's canceled auction at Slitswan," he stated, his tone measured, authoritative. "Who is the owner of Moon Halo?"
A brief pause followed, heavy and deliberate, before the cool, guarded voice of Leinz responded. "Slitswan? I have no idea what you're talking about. Why are you asking me for information on Slitswan?"
Eiser recognized the carefully constructed defense on the other end. Leinz was testing him, buying time, protecting both herself and the secrets of the elite art world. He wasn't surprised—this was standard procedure among those with influence in the rarefied, opaque circles of high-end collecting.
But Eiser wasn't here to negotiate favors or to plead. He was applying direct, unyielding pressure, leveraging a network of connections only someone of his status and experience could command. Every word, every pause, was calculated to extract information quickly and decisively.
The fate of Serena Serenity now rested on his ability to cut through layers of art-world bureaucracy, deceit, and secrecy—to dismantle the kidnappers' trap before time ran out. And Eiser was already moving three steps ahead, thinking, calculating, commanding, prepared to act the moment the truth surfaced.
Eiser remained perfectly still, the phone pressed lightly to his ear, his sharp blue eyes fixed on some distant, invisible point as Leinz, his old acquaintance, danced delicately around the truth. The warmth of the chandelier behind him did little to soften the chill of his presence.
"Slitswan? I have no idea what you're talking about. Why are you asking me for information on Slitswan?" Leinz's voice was smooth, too smooth, sliding over the antique receiver like a carefully polished veneer.
Eiser didn't pause. He dove straight past the facade, his next words a declaration rather than a question—a blade wrapped in authority, slicing through pretense.
"Did you really think I wouldn't know about the illegal partnership… between your gallery and Slitswan Auction House?"
There was a sharp, almost imperceptible intake of breath on the other end, a tiny ragged gasp betraying the first cracks in her composure.
"How did you—?" she began, but Eiser spoke over her, leaving no room for denial or diversion.
"I've known for a while that the two businesses were secretly sharing information," he continued, each word deliberate, lethal in its calmness. "Not only are you and Slitswan price-fixing commission fees… you have a long history of using so-called experts, brokers, and counter-bidders to fraudulently inflate winning bids at auctions."
He wasn't asking for information anymore. He was delivering an ultimatum, exposing knowledge that could ruin careers and reputations if leveraged correctly. His mind connected the dots in rapid, unerring succession: the canceled auction, Han's reputation, the mysterious painting used to lure Serena. Every piece fit together with cold precision.
"I knew in advance that the auction taking place this evening would be canceled. They said they wouldn't be charging a fine for this cancellation, so I wondered if he was up to something again..." His tone was smooth, but beneath it lay the urgent, electric edge of a man racing against time.
Leinz's silence stretched, heavy and deliberate, before she finally let out a long, measured sigh, tinged with both resignation and fury.
"I tried to hide it as best I could," she admitted, voice quivering slightly with irritation, "knowing how much you'd hate what I was doing… It's a shame you were already aware. But… of course… I suppose it's not surprising that you know about that. You're always a step ahead of everyone."
Her words carried a simmering anger, a challenge wrapped in reluctant acknowledgment of his superiority.
"…Unfortunately, darling, threatening me with that won't work," she finally said, her voice gaining edge, ruthlessness surfacing. "Slitswan and my gallery's position in the kingdom is unrivaled. Even if you were to reveal our backroom dealings, it'll be quickly swept under the rug."
She believed in the absolute safety her influence afforded, convinced that Eiser's reach would falter against entrenched power.
Eiser closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself, accepting the impasse. He had hit a wall—Leinz would not yield Han's information, shielded by the very corruption he had exposed. Blackmail, threats, or intimidation alone would not extract what he needed. He needed a different angle, a path that didn't rely on her complicity.
For now, he had to pivot. Serena's safety was paramount, and if Leinz would not give him the answer, he would find another way to reach her, another way to dismantle the carefully constructed trap.
:
The car hurtled along the dark, unpaved road, each jolt and rattle of the wheels sending shivers of unease through Serena's body. The night outside was absolute black, the faint glimmer of distant stars the only hint of the world beyond the vehicle's confines. Yet inside, her mind raced with clarity, guided by Frederick's instructions and a single, desperate goal: leave traces that could lead Eiser to her.
Her hands, still bound but nimble, had already worked quickly to exploit every memory of his advice. She had discarded small, identifiable items—her red rose earring, the cuff button, the handkerchief—all tiny signals strewn behind her in the shadowed wilderness.
This is the last piece of jewelry I'm wearing, she thought, fingers brushing against her neck. The necklace Eiser had given her. She hesitated for only a moment. I can't leave behind anything else after this.
She examined it quickly in the faint glimmers of starlight piercing the car's small windows. The necklace was exquisite, almost painfully personal: a white, luminous metal chain holding a single, massive emerald that gleamed even in the dim light. This was no ordinary piece of jewelry—it was a beacon, unmistakable, one that Eiser would recognize immediately, a perfect final trace to mark her desperate path.
It's beautiful… I wish I didn't have to part with it, she thought, the pang of sorrow and longing for him mingling with the urgency of the moment.
With a steadying breath, she acted. Fingers gripping the chain, she tugged with all her remaining strength. RIP. The necklace broke free, falling like a jewel in slow motion.
TOSS! Serena pushed it through the narrow crack in the window. The emerald tumbled across the dusty road, catching the faint glimmer of starlight as it spun, then vanished into the gloom behind the speeding car. She dared not look back. Each second counted.
No sooner had she completed her sacrifice than the car jolted violently.
SQUEAL! The tires protested sharply against the uneven terrain.
Serena's heart leapt into her throat. The car stopped! she realized, every sense snapping back to the present. It must be our destination…
A man's voice, rough, commanding, cut through the tense silence of the night. "Lady Sera, we're here!"
The car door was unlatched, swinging open with a creak that seemed deafening in the darkness. Beyond it, the weak glow of distant lights revealed the shadow of a tall, imposing figure—the kidnapper, dark and menacing against the wilderness.
This was the moment she had been preparing for, the opportunity she had anticipated. The escape she had envisioned with Frederick was no longer hypothetical. The fate of Serena now rested entirely on her cunning, her nerves, and the courage she could summon in the next fleeting seconds.
She had reached the hideout. The stage was set, and every careful trace she had left behind—the earring, the cuff, the handkerchief, the emerald necklace—was now a lifeline that could guide Eiser to her.
The room was heavy, almost suffocating, as if the very air had thickened into a tangible weight. It was no longer a space for negotiation or parley; it had become an executioner's chamber, a stage set for judgment. Shadows clung to the corners, flickering in the glow of a low, almost feral light that pulsed with a heat that seemed alive. The faint hum of electricity—or perhaps tension itself—vibrated through the walls, matching the fire that burned in the speaker's veins.
Her face remained hidden from view, an impenetrable mask of cold resolution. There was no mercy in the lines of her jaw, no hesitation in the tilt of her posture. A lifetime of patience, of strategic maneuvering, had led to this moment. She would not allow another second to be squandered on the games of subordinates.
"I don't have… any time to waste." Her words were sharp, each syllable a deliberate strike, cutting through the oppressive silence like a blade.
The objective was singular: the truth behind the enigmatic figure who had thrown the delicate balance of power into chaos. Every thread of investigation, every careful calculation, now converged on this moment.
"Who is Han, the owner of Moon Halo? Or, to be more precise…"
The question hung in the air like a poisoned bait, suspended in darkness. The figure before her—on knees, hands bound, head bowed in forced submission—was a small piece in a puzzle far larger and infinitely darker. Fear radiated from him in silent waves, though he thought to mask it.
"…is the person behind Han…"
The silence stretched, thick and torturous, pressing against the ears and heart alike. Every tick of time felt magnified, each second a small eternity, until the words finally emerged, trembling at first, then gaining weight as they were spoken aloud:
"…Victor?"
The name rolled through the room, echoing and reverberating against the walls, carrying with it the electric charge of revelation.
All attention shifted instinctively to the figure standing above the kneeling man—a tower of calculated menace and absolute control. The harsh, unforgiving red light cast shadows across his sharp features, highlighting the contours of a face that had endured and commanded. His dark suit clung perfectly, every fold meticulous, betraying no sign of looseness or casualness. Two anonymous figures lingered just behind him, their presence a silent testament to the authority he wielded effortlessly.
His eyes—chillingly bright blue, almost unnatural in their intensity—seemed to pierce beyond flesh and bone, cutting through the veil of pretense and secrecy. A prominent scar traced a jagged line down his cheek, a brutal reminder of battles fought and survived, of lessons written in pain.
He was the answer, the enigma crystallized in human form. Victor. The man behind the schemes, the shadow behind the art world's facade, the orchestrator of a trap that had now sprung with precision.
His expression betrayed no pity, no hesitation. Only power—absolute, potent, and terrifying. It confirmed every fear, resolved every question, and sealed the realization: the game had been decided, and the board now belonged entirely to him.