“Congratulations on your purchase,” Wilfred said, returning to my side, his face still unreadable. He simply nodded curtly.

“I want to meet the seller,” I insist. I need answers. I need to know what happened to Bailey. Or if he’s behind this whole mess.

“I will attend to it with the utmost diligence,” Wilfred replied.

The auction ended, and the crowd dispersed. If Bailey tried to sell that notebook… well, let’s just say Rexy’s been craving a good… dinner.

Wilfred returned to the room. “The seller has consented to a meeting. To ensure discretion, you will each occupy separate chambers, communicating through electronic projections.”

“Can you sneak around and find the person and track him after?” I whisper to Rexy, placing all my hopes on her now tiny shoulders. I felt a slight shift in my hair—Rexy’s version of a nod.

“That’s fine,” I tell Wilfred, trying to sound nonchalant.

“I shall prepare the necessary documentation. Please, this way.” Wilfred gestured.

He leads me to a completely different wing of the building, a maze of polished hallways and hushed whispers. Rexy takes advantage of the relative privacy to slip out of my hair, disappearing into the shadows.

Smart girl.

Wilfred ushers me into a stark, minimalist room. The door clicks shut behind me, and a moment later, the projector on the far wall flickers to life. A shadowy, indistinct figure materializes as a 3D projection. This guy’s tall and looks like he hits the gym. Hard. Unless Bailey’s been secretly pumping iron, this isn’t him. Not even close.

“So, how did you get the notebook?” I asked directly.

“None of your business,” the shadowy figure snaps, sounding impatient. “The auction house verified its authenticity, didn’t they? If there’s nothing else, I’m done here.”

“Do you have anything else?” I counter. “Anything else from Dr. Keyser?”

“No,” the shadowy figure replies. The projection abruptly cuts off.

I hurry out of the room to find Wilfred blocking my path. “If I may,” he says, his voice as smooth as ever, “our Mistress wishes to retain the notebook for safekeeping until the borrowed sum is repaid. Should the repayment be completed within one week, the loan will be considered interest-free.”

I feel Rexy scrambling back up my leg and settling in my hair. “Right, that’s fine,” I said, gently nudging Wilfred aside.

“Which way?” I whisper to Rexy. She clambers onto my shoulder and points with her tiny tongue, a miniature compass.

I navigate the city streets at a brisk pace, my mind helpfully replaying every spy movie cliché I’ve ever seen. Just before turning into a narrow alleyway, I activate my nanobots. My outfit shifts to something a little less conspicuous—darker, more practical.

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Finally, I reach a nondescript door. A bottle-shaped sign hangs crookedly beside it. I push the door open and step inside.

Of course, it was a bar.

A few patrons are scattered along the counter, nursing their drinks, but none of them resemble the shadowy figure from the projection. Rexy, now nestled discreetly in my hair, points with her tiny tongue towards the back of the counter.

Is there something hidden back there? I approach the bartender. “Give me your best drink,” I say, meeting his gaze. He pulls out a sleek, futuristic-looking machine and sets it on the counter in front of me. I take out the card I received at the auction house and tap it against the machine. Ding!

Works like a credit card, neat!

The bartender quickly got to work, concocting a vibrant red drink with a core of blue, setting it ablaze before sliding it across the counter. I downed it in one go—a surprisingly delightful blend of red wine with the aroma of berries and a nutty aftertaste. “Not bad,” I comment.

“I’m looking for a man back there,” I say, gesturing behind the counter. The bartender gives me a peculiar look before placing the futuristic machine in front of me again. I tap the card. Ding!

With a shrug, the bartender unlatches a small door behind the counter, revealing a long hallway that leads to a drastically different scene. It opens into a large space pulsating with music—a full-blown rave. The place is packed.

Rexy, perched atop my head, twitched his nose, pointing a tiny paw towards a corner table. A large guy with long, black, curly hair was grooving with a couple of women, completely oblivious to his impending doom – or, well, questioning.

As I approached, the guy spotted me and instantly tried to bolt. But my reflexes were faster.I snagged him by the collar and hauled him back, planting him firmly on the dance floor.

The nearby ravers shrieked, momentarily breaking their trance. Almost instantly, we were surrounded by ten burly bouncers.

“He’s the one I’m looking for,” I announced, gesturing to the squirming guy in my grasp. “I don’t want any trouble.” The guy beneath me tried to protest, but I preemptively clapped a hand over his mouth.

Efficiency is key.

Pulling out the familiar card. “I need a quiet room. Name your price,” I said to the apparent leader, a mountain of a man with a shaved head.

He glanced around at the increasingly agitated crowd, then pulled a small, rectangular device from his pocket. Ding! It was becoming a familiar sound. The other bouncers dispersed, the one with the device – our new concierge – leading us towards a door on the side.

I hoisted the struggling guy to his feet and shoved him through the doorway.

Forcing him into a corner of the small, surprisingly soundproof room. “Who are you working for?! Where did you get the notebook?!” I demanded.

“What are you… talking about?” the man stammered, avoiding my gaze.

“Right guy?” I whispered to Rexy, just to be sure. Rexy gave a firm nod.

I throw a swift punch at the wall beside the man’s head. The impact sends a satisfying tremor through the surprisingly solid room. Leaning close, I lower my voice. “The next one won’t be hitting drywall.”

“I really don’t know… please,” he whimpers, voice barely above a whisper. “I was just… supposed to meet someone at the auction. Take the card from the auction house. Please… I swear I don’t know anything else…”

“Where’s the card?! Hand it over!” I command, holding out my hand.

Gotta get my money back. No way I’m paying twenty million for something that’s already mine.

He reaches into his pocket. A split second before I realize he isn’t pulling out a card, but a small, metallic pistol, he fires.