Lucien woke up late.
Sunday mornings in the Rein house were always quiet — the sound of coffee machines, pages turning, someone typing, the TV murmuring in the background.
He washed up, headed downstairs, and stepped into the living area.
Marianne looked up from arranging fruit on a tray.
"Oh, good. You're awake."
Rowen sat on the couch with his laptop.
"Your deliveries will be here soon," he said without looking up.
Reggie glanced from his phone. "Gate called earlier. Said there were two."
Lucien nodded. "Yeah. Mine."
Elaine leaned on the counter, sipping tea.
"Just don't park them in Dad's spot."
Lex peeked from behind the sofa, hair sticking up everywhere.
"What did you buy?" he asked, eyes widening with kid curiosity.
"Bike," Lucien said.
Lex immediately lit up.
"Does it go fast?"
Lucien smirked. "Fast enough."
Before Lex could ask more, the sound of an engine rolled through the courtyard.
Marianne wiped her hands on a cloth.
"That must be it."
Lucien stepped outside as two technicians unloaded the electric bike.
The Midnight finish looked even darker in daylight — swallowing the light around it.
Lex rushed up behind him barefoot.
"Whoa!" he whispered loudly. "It looks like a ninja bike."
Elaine walked out with her tea.
"So this is the one you wanted."
Lucien nodded once.
Rowen came to the doorway, arms crossed.
"Hm," he said quietly, giving the slightest approving look before going back inside.
A few minutes later, another truck pulled in.
The LC500 was rolled down carefully, the pearl Nori Green shimmering when the sunlight hit it right.
Lex practically bounced.
"Two?! You bought two?!"
Lucien shrugged. "Needed a car."
Reggie passed by, giving the LC500 a brief look.
"Nice pick."
Aldric stepped out last, adjusting his glasses as he glanced at both vehicles.
"Put them in the garage when you're done," he said calmly. "Breakfast will be ready soon."
Lucien nodded.
"Yeah."
Lex tugged on Lucien's sleeve.
"Can I sit on the bike?"
"After I finish the paperwork," Lucien said.
"Okay!" Lex ran circles around the Midnight bike, inspecting it like a tiny mechanic.
The family drifted back inside.
The courtyard settled.
The morning continued as usual.
Lucien handed back the signed documents, rolled the bike aside, and exhaled.
A calm start to his Sunday.
The hum of soft classical music filled the antique gallery.
Warm lights glowed across polished wooden floors, illuminating canvases that looked older than most countries.
A middle-aged consultant stood with his hands behind his back, speaking to a potential buyer.
"This piece," the consultant said, gesturing to the portrait of a nobleman,
"is late 18th-century. Brushwork suggests a student of François Gérard, though the signature is… a mystery."
The buyer nodded politely, squinting at the painting.
"Looks expensive enough," he murmured.
The consultant smiled, choosing not to comment.
Before he could continue, the gallery doorbell chimed.
Softly.
Almost politely.
A man stepped in.
White.
White coat.
White gloves.
White suit tailored with perfect restraint.
Dark hair slicked back—not a strand out of place.
Calm footsteps, even, measured.
The staff turned instinctively.
Not because of noise.
But because something about him demanded attention without trying.
The consultant straightened, offering a professional nod.
"Good morning, sir. Welcome back."
The man in white smiled faintly.
"Good morning," he said, voice warm but quiet.
"Forgive me for interrupting."
The consultant shook his head. "Not at all."
The man stepped closer to the painting they had been discussing.
His eyes passed over the frame, the cracks, the texture of the oil.
He didn't stare.
He studied.
"This isn't Gérard," he said softly. "Nor his students."
The buyer blinked. "You can tell?"
The man tapped a finger lightly against the air—not touching the canvas, but pointing near the brushstroke.
"The shading on the collar… too confident for Gérard's circle. And the layering on the cheekbone is wrong for that era."
He smiled politely.
"This was painted by Louis Vauquelin. 1793. His early period."
The consultant's eyebrows rose.
"That would explain the inconsistencies in catalog records… we suspected, but—"
"He often left his pieces unsigned," the man added, tone matter-of-fact,
"to avoid political attention during the Reign of Terror."
The buyer stared at him, genuinely impressed.
"You're an art historian?"
The man chuckled softly. "Oh no. Merely… familiar with history."
He extended a hand.
"Emerson Vale," he said smoothly.
His eyes were calm.
Patient.
Old, in a way that had nothing to do with age.
The buyer shook his hand.
"Well, Mr. Vale, you certainly know your stuff."
"A collector tends to remember the pieces he's seen before."
The consultant blinked. "You've seen this one before?"
Emerson's smile didn't change.
"A long time ago."
He turned back to the painting, hands clasped softly behind his back.
The gallery lights caught on his white sleeve—clean, controlled, elegant.
"Send this one for restoration," he said. "It deserves better lighting. And better company."
"Of course," the consultant said quickly. "I'll arrange it."
Emerson Vale nodded once.
"Good."
He moved on, browsing the gallery with unhurried grace.
To everyone watching, he was simply a refined, wealthy client.
But the consultant felt it, faintly—
Something off.
Something deep.
Something old.
And when Emerson paused at a medieval tapestry, tracing the air above its faded threads, the consultant noticed something he couldn't explain:
The man didn't just look at these antiques.
He looked like someone who remembered them.
Emerson Vale ended the gallery call and walked out to the waiting sedan. The chauffeur opened the door without a word. Emerson slid in, the faint scent of cedar and old paper settling around him.
"Riverside facility," he said.
The chauffeur nodded and pulled into traffic.
The drive was quiet. Emerson watched the city blur past the window — new buildings, new people, new noise. The world kept changing; the nature of people never did.
The sedan rolled through the warehouse gates twenty minutes later. The moment Emerson stepped out, every guard straightened as though electricity ran through them. Some dipped their heads. Others simply froze in place. Harlan Briggs, the supervisor, hurried forward, clearly nervous.
"Collector, sir."
Emerson gave a small nod. "Show me."
Inside, the warehouse lights buzzed faintly. Stacks of crates, some open, some sealed. A few corners held the new children — quiet, exhausted, shrinking from light and noise. Emerson walked between them without breaking stride, hands behind his back, gaze steady and unreadable.
Harlan followed a step behind, shoulders tight. Guards moved out of the way instantly.
Emerson stopped in front of six children.
"Lift their heads."
A guard gently tilted their chins up. Emerson studied their faces, eyes, posture. Nothing. No spark. No echo. No resonance.
He shifted to the next group.
Still nothing.
Then another.
And another.
After the fourth row, he turned slightly toward Harlan.
"Good work," he said quietly.
Relief flooded Harlan's face—too soon.
"But," Emerson added, "this batch has none with resonance."
Harlan's mouth went dry. "N-none at all?"
"None," Emerson repeated.
He tapped a wooden crate beside him — a large one marked with dull red paint.
"Move the children to the usual buyers. They'll serve their purpose elsewhere."
Harlan nodded quickly, already waving a guard over.
"And that one," Emerson continued, pointing at the red-marked crate, "send it to the African branch."
Harlan stiffened.
"Our mines need more hands," Emerson said simply.
The entire warehouse seemed to quiet itself. More than fear — everyone waited to make sure he wasn't displeased.
Emerson adjusted the cuff of his white sleeve, brushed away a bit of dust, and turned toward the exit.
"I'll return next week," he said, voice calm and light. "Prepare a batch worth my time."
Harlan bowed immediately. "Yes, Collector."
The guards scrambled immediately.
Emerson didn't watch.
He didn't need to.
He stepped past the warehouse doors and into the open yard, heading toward the car waiting for him—sleek, black, silent.
A faint breeze tugged at his coat.
Then—
Something brushed the edge of his senses.
A pinprick of intent.
Soft.
Precise.
He stopped walking.
Harlan noticed immediately. "Collector? Is something wrong?"
Emerson didn't answer.
He turned slowly, eyes narrowing slightly as he scanned the area.
The sensation wasn't loud.
Not threatening.
Not sloppy.
Clean.
Disciplined.
Almost elegant.
He walked back toward the containers, each step deliberate, controlled.
Harlan followed, hesitant, unsure whether to breathe or not.
Emerson circled one crate—an old, weathered one tucked behind the others.
Nothing unusual from the outside.
Until he saw it.
A faint symbol burned into the wood grain.
Not with fire.
With intention.
Emerson crouched and ran his fingertips along it.
He didn't need light.
He didn't need tools.
He could feel it.
Fresh.
Two or three days old at most.
Precise strokes.
Balanced energy.
Sharp edges where the user exhaled through their teeth.
"Not amateur work," Emerson murmured.
Harlan leaned in, nervous. "Was this done here?"
"No."
Emerson brushed more dust off the mark—though there was none—and tilted his head, examining the flow.
"This was placed far from this location. Before transport."
A pause.
"Whoever did this allowed me to find it."
Harlan blinked. "Should I alert the—"
Emerson raised one finger.
Silence.
He kept studying the sigil like a mathematician solving an equation.
Then he exhaled slowly.
"Excellent craftsmanship," he said. "Disciplined. Efficient. Not a wasted motion."
Harlan swallowed. "One of ours?"
"No," Emerson said.
There was no irritation.
No anger.
It was a simple truth.
"None of you," he continued, tone calm, "possess the comprehension required to understand the nature of this mark."
He wasn't insulting them.
He was informing them.
"This work," he said, running one gloved finger along the sigil's lower curve, "belongs to someone operating far outside your reach."
He placed his palm on the mark.
The seal broke instantly—clean, smooth, dissolving like ink under bleach.
The crate didn't even creak.
Emerson rose and turned toward the car.
His shadow slid after him in a long, silent stretch.
"Collector," Harlan asked quietly, "what does it mean?"
Emerson adjusted his collar, expression unreadable.
"It means," he said, "someone interesting has entered the board."
He stepped into the waiting car.
"And I intend to find him."
The door shut.
The car rolled away.
And the air felt colder behind it.
Emerson stepped into the back seat, coat settling neatly as he crossed one leg over the other.
The door closed with a soft, controlled thud.
The engine hummed as Hayes pulled away from the warehouse.
"Something wrong, Mr. Vale?" Hayes asked quietly.
Emerson didn't answer at once.
His eyes remained on his gloved fingertips, still carrying the faintest residue of the sigil he'd erased.
"No, Hayes," he finally said. "Not wrong. Unusual."
Hayes waited.
"That mark," Emerson continued, "was Japanese. Old discipline. The way the pressure was distributed… the breath control embedded into each stroke… unmistakable."
Hayes raised an eyebrow. "That specific?"
"Yes."
Emerson's gaze narrowed slightly.
"It was executed with such precision that I didn't sense it when it was placed. That alone is rare."
Hayes merged into the main road.
"Should I alert the inner circle?"
Emerson shook his head once.
"No. Not yet."
He leaned back against the leather seats.
"A practitioner who can craft something with that level of balance is never simply tagging crates. He is capable of far more."
Hayes didn't speak.
Emerson continued, voice quiet:
"If he wished to disrupt today's operation, he could have done so completely. He had the ability to interfere — quietly, efficiently. He could have halted the movement, intercepted the shipment, or removed every escort without drawing notice."
Hayes's fingers tightened on the wheel.
"But he didn't," Emerson said.
A small breath escaped him — thoughtful, not troubled.
"And that is the part that interests me."
He looked out of the window, the passing landscape reflected faintly in his eyes.
"This individual," he murmured, "is not naïve. Not misguided. He knew precisely what that shipment contained. He knew the crates held children."
A pause, cool and reflective.
"And still… he chose not to free them."
Hayes turned slightly in his seat. "Then why leave a mark?"
"Because he preferred information over interference," Emerson said.
"No idealist spares a convoy of children. No savior leaves them in chains."
His tone lowered.
"Only a strategist does that."
Hayes swallowed once.
"So he sacrificed their lives for intelligence?"
"No," Emerson corrected softly. "He sacrificed their hope for insight. Their survival was never his objective. His objective was understanding me."
Hayes went silent.
Emerson settled back, gloved fingers tapping once against the armrest.
"That level of restraint," he said, "is not weakness. It is calculation. He watched the board instead of touching it."
Another moment passed.
"And anyone who studies before acting," Emerson said quietly, "always plays a longer game."
Hayes didn't turn around.
He didn't need to.
He could hear it in Emerson's tone:
The Collector wasn't irritated.
He wasn't concerned.
He was interested.
Dangerously so.
Emerson's gaze drifted to the window again, the reflection of the passing road cutting across his eyes like a thin blade of silver.
"This individual," he murmured, "possesses skill, restraint, and intent. He knew the crates held children. He knew the escort routes, the shift changes, the blind angles… and yet he chose observation over disruption."
Hayes didn't speak.
"He let the shipment move," Emerson continued, "not out of mercy… but out of discipline. A man like that records the board before making a move."
A quiet hum filled the car.
Emerson tapped the armrest once with a gloved knuckle — a small, controlled sound.
"Someone capable of that much precision," he said, "is not an enemy to discard."
Hayes glanced at him in the rear-view mirror, waiting.
Emerson's expression barely shifted — a faint turn of the mouth, thoughtful rather than amused.
"Hayes," he said softly, "I would very much like to become acquainted with this person."
Hayes nodded once.
"Yes, Mr. Vale."
The car continued down the empty road, and for the first time in years, the Collector felt something he rarely did.
Curiosity.
Lucien ate quietly, half-focused on his plate.
Rowen sat across from him, scrolling through something.
Marianne moved around the table, setting down dishes while Lex hummed to himself between mouthfuls.
Lucien lifted his spoon—
And something inside him snapped.
A clean break.
A severed thread.
His hand went slack.
The spoon fell.
Clink.
Rowen looked up. "You okay?"
Marianne paused, concerned. "Lucien?"
He didn't answer them.
Because the voice spoke first, low and immediate:
"…brat."
Lucien exhaled through his nose.
"Yeah," he murmured back. "I felt it."
A simmering beat.
The voice continued:
"They didn't just find the seal."
"They understood it."
"…and they broke it right."
Lucien leaned back, expression unreadable, shoulders relaxing like nothing happened.
Rowen raised an eyebrow.
"What was that?"
"Nothing," Lucien replied simply. "Just slipped."
He reached for another spoon without looking shaken.
But inside?
Someone out there had just proven they weren't a nobody.
And Lucien knew it.
Lucien finished the rest of his food quickly, barely tasting it.
His mind was already elsewhere.
He pushed back his chair.
"I'm done," he said casually.
Marianne nodded. Rowen just hummed in response.
Lucien stepped out into the courtyard, hands in his pockets, the morning air cooler than usual. He walked toward the far edge of the garden — the part no one really went to — and stopped under the shade of a tree.
Silence.
He tilted his head slightly, eyes unfocused.
The voice spoke first.
"That wasn't random."
"No," Lucien muttered.
A light breeze stirred the leaves.
"He didn't just break it," Lucien continued. "He read it clean."
The voice hummed.
"And he broke it gently."
"Like someone who knew exactly what it meant… and what it didn't."
Lucien's jaw flexed once.
"Whoever it is," he said, "they weren't scared of me."
A short pause.
"Brat," the voice added, tone amused, "…they're curious about you."
Lucien let out a slow exhale, eyes narrowing at nothing in particular.
Curious.
That was always the dangerous type.
He stayed there a while longer, quiet, thinking, feeling the faint aftershock of someone brushing against his work — someone skilled enough to dissect it without triggering anything else.
Someone who had noticed him.
Lucien's fingers tapped lightly against his thigh.
"…fine," he murmured.
"Let's see where this goes."
Lucien stepped into the courtyard, the weight of the broken seal still lingering in his chest.
"I need a smoke," he muttered under his breath.
He walked straight to the garage where the Midnight bike waited, its matte body swallowing the morning light.
Lucien climbed onto the seat, steady and familiar already.
He placed his thumb on the ignition pad.
Soft beep.
The dashboard lit up instantly, the electric motor waking with a smooth, low hum.
No key.
No card.
Just his fingerprint.
The voice inside him murmured:
"…still thinking about it, huh."
Lucien didn't answer.
He eased the bike forward, rolling toward the front gate.
Two guards noticed him and straightened immediately.
"Good Morning, sir," one said respectfully.
Lucien gave a small nod.
"Morning. Need to head out."
"Right away, sir."
They slid the gate open without delay.
Lucien guided the bike through, and one of the guards added:
"Ride safe, sir."
Lucien offered a short nod back, tightened his grip on the handlebar—
—and twisted the throttle.
The Midnight shot forward in absolute silence, smooth and deadly quick, carving through the road on his way to the bar from his first night.
Lucien killed the engine and The Midnight settled into silence, its obsidian frame swallowing the neon bouncing off the pavement.
He took a breath, straightened his hoodie, and walked inside.
The bar was low-lit, glowing in strips of pink and blue.
Soft synth music.
A couple of regulars half-asleep.
The bartender looked up.
"Morning rush, huh?" he said dryly.
"Whiskey. Neat," Lucien replied, sliding a few crisp notes across the counter.
The bartender noticed.
"No card today?"
Lucien barely lifted a shoulder.
"Prefer cash."
No more questions.
The glass came down.
Lucien downed it in one clean shot, the burn sharp enough to cut through his thoughts.
"Another?"
"Later," Lucien said, pushing the glass away and heading out.
Outside, he leaned against the wall beside The Midnight, took out a cigarette, lit it with practiced ease.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Smoke curled lazily upward, mixing into the neon haze.
The voice spoke calmly.
"Brat."
Lucien didn't move.
"Yeah. I felt it."
A slow drag.
Fingers steady.
"They didn't just find the seal," he muttered.
"They understood it."
The voice hummed, darkly amused.
"That's rare."
Lucien flicked ash onto the concrete.
"That marker wasn't even old," he said quietly.
"Four days. And he still traced it."
Silence for a moment.
Wind brushed past.
The street stayed empty.
The voice finally added:
"Whoever broke it… knew what they were doing."
Lucien finished the cigarette, crushed it under his heel, and stared at nothing in particular.
"I'll worry about it when it becomes a problem."
A faint laugh from the voice.
"There he is."
Lucien took out the cigarette pack again, slipped it into his hoodie pocket, and stepped toward the bike.
He wasn't scared.
He wasn't shaken.
Just… thinking.
And that was enough.
The room was dim and sterile — concrete walls, a single desk, and a faint hum from old ventilation ducts.
A pale blue flame hovered over a metal dish in the center of the table, flickering without heat.
Across from Emerson stood Professor Arven, an older man with a trimmed beard, round glasses, and ink stains on his fingers — the kind of scholar who had spent too long reading things people shouldn't read.
He held a small parchment-like film in tweezers.
The broken residue of Lucien's seal.
He studied it under a magnifier, rotating it slowly, scanning every angle.
Finally he lowered it and exhaled.
"Emerson…"
Not dramatic — uneasy.
"This is… perfect."
Emerson didn't blink.
"Define perfect."
Arven spread his hands slightly.
"No trace.
No sigil.
No insignia.
No clan signature.
No family style.
No inherited technique.
Nothing borrowed. Nothing stolen."
He placed the fragment gently on the velvet — like something alive.
"It doesn't match any of the fifty-seven known sealing traditions.
Not Japanese.
Not Korean.
Not Himalayan.
Not Mediterranean.
Nothing in the archives."
Emerson's gaze cooled.
"So the craftsman was self-taught."
Arven shook his head immediately.
"No. That's the problem."
He tapped the residue.
"This isn't someone improvising.
This is someone who mastered the fundamentals of every system… then stripped all identity from it.
It's not a school.
It's not a lineage.
It's not a style."
A slow breath.
"It's a person."
Emerson's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Meaning?"
Arven swallowed.
"Meaning whoever placed this didn't learn a technique."
He pointed again.
"He is the technique."
Silence.
Arven's voice lowered."And Emerson… even someone of your level would've struggled to notice this.
The only reason you found it at all…"
He paused.
"…was luck."
For the first time, Emerson's eyes narrowed a fraction deeper.
Arven stepped back.
"And remember—this was a fresh seal.
Three, maybe four days old.
The precision required for that… is unheard of."
Emerson straightened his gloves.
"Interesting."
Arven nodded.
"You're not dealing with a prodigy.
You're dealing with someone who reconstructed the craft from the ground up."
He exhaled.
"And if this person wanted those children freed…
you wouldn't have had a convoy left."
Emerson turned toward the door.
"That," he murmured, "is exactly what makes him worth noticing."Emerson didn't respond.
He didn't need to.
He simply turned, pushed the door open, and walked out.
The blue flame behind him went out instantly, as if bowing.
Outside, the air was cooler.
Quieter.
He took a slow breath, lifted his eyes to the pale morning sky—
—and a small, measured grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.