The dockside district still felt foreign to Ivan, its winding, weathered alleys and muddy crossroads weaving an unfamiliar maze under the fading daylight. As the clock neared six, Ivan finally spotted the Hamptonians Café tucked inconspicuously between two timeworn buildings, its modest facade nearly lost amid the grit of the docks.
Stepping inside was like entering another world. Unlike the rough exterior, the interior of the Hamptonians Café was warm and inviting, adorned with rich, dark wood that glowed under the soft amber lights. The air was thick with the scent of roasted coffee and steeping tea, blending into an aroma that was as comforting as it was complex.
Behind the polished counter stood a barista in a cozy black-and-white wool sweater, absently wiping a cup with a practiced rhythm, his gaze drifting lazily across the room as though he had all the time in the world. Ivan approached, his steps soft on the creaking floor, and tapped the counter lightly with his index finger, catching the barista's attention.
"Good afternoon," Ivan greeted, a friendly smile curving his lips. Leaning in slightly, he added in a low, measured tone, "I'm here for 'five bottles of Highland wine.'"
The barista paused, looked up with a calm, knowing gaze, and replied in the distinctive Hampton accent, "Welcome. The masquerade is being held on the second floor."
Ivan nodded, understanding the coded language. Among wizards, "masquerade" was a familiar term, a subtle invitation to one of their clandestine gatherings. Without another word, he moved toward the narrow passageway at the back of the café, where a heavy, velvety curtain hung, concealing the stairwell beyond.
As he lifted the curtain and stepped into the stairwell, Ivan's eyes caught the unusual decorations on the wall: dozens of masks in every conceivable shape and design hung in neat rows, their expressions frozen in an array of mystery and intrigue. The display was elaborate, a testament to the café's taste or perhaps a reflection of the Hamptonians' own penchant for elegance. He scanned the masks, each one a strange mixture of artistry and eccentricity, until his gaze settled on a crow-shaped mask with dark, sleek feathers. It was simple, yet it had an air of quiet confidence that appealed to him.
Donning the mask, Ivan ascended the narrow staircase, his footsteps muffled by the plush red carpet that led him to the second floor. At the top, he found a dimly lit room with an open doorway, the light casting a soft, inviting glow. Stepping inside, he took in the layout; a space reminiscent of the café below, with several small tables and chairs scattered around, accompanied by plush sofas against the walls. Near the entrance, a modest podium stood, giving the room the feel of a discreet auction house.
Around the room, seven or eight individuals sat in quiet anticipation, each keeping a respectful distance from the others. A few wore dark robes, their hoods pulled low to conceal their features, their postures guarded and silent. Behind the podium, a tall, thin old man stood with an air of authority, his black tuxedo pristine and his silver hair neatly combed. His bearing marked him as the evening's host, a figure of quiet command.
As Ivan entered, he felt the subtle shift in the room's attention, a flicker of curiosity directed at the modest suitcase he carried. He couldn't help but suppress a wry smile. "Sorry to disappoint," he thought to himself, "it's just filled with ordinary old clothes." He found an empty high stool near the back corner and settled in, his gaze never straying far from the podium.
Once Ivan was seated, the old man glanced at his slender silver watch, its ticking the only sound breaking the silence. As the minute hand struck six, he lifted his hand in a small, deliberate motion, and the room's door swung closed with a soft creak. A hush fell over the room, a tangible anticipation settling over the gathering.
The old man's gaze swept across the faces in the room. When he spoke, his voice was steady and unhurried. "Good evening, everyone. Let us begin."
There was a murmur of agreement from around the room as he continued, "As always, we will start with the trading session. I will introduce each item, and those interested may raise their hand."
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a slip of paper. "The first item tonight is a set of information on a newly awakened 5D-level non-gang wizard. This data can be purchased by multiple parties for 20 dollars per copy, or one of you may choose to buy exclusive rights for an additional 80 dollars."
He paused, giving time for the offer to settle. "If anyone wishes to monopolize this information, please raise your hand."
Silence reigned. Ivan watched as the other attendees remained still, their expressions masked by shadows and hoods. No one moved to raise their hand. A hundred dollars was no trivial amount, especially when there was no guarantee the information wasn't already circulating among other gatherings. The decision was, in its way, a small dance of risk and prudence, a game that each attendee seemed adept at playing.
The old man's eyes flicked from face to face, observing the room's reactions with the practiced ease of one who'd done this many times. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, acknowledging their collective restraint before moving on.
The evening had officially begun, and Ivan leaned back, ready to see what the night's masquerade would bring.
Ivan stifled a grimace. This so-called "intelligence" was undoubtedly gang-sourced, a morsel of information they'd squeeze for every penny. Each time the details of this newly awakened wizard changed hands, the gang would pocket more profit; all before the poor soul even knew they were being hunted. Such information could be circulated indefinitely at various gatherings, a ruthless business model that left Ivan feeling cold.
In Bridgewick, there were roughly sixty wizards, with forty of them unaffiliated with any gang. Even if only half decided to purchase this information, the gang stood to rake in around 400 dollars. Easy money, built on the lives of the vulnerable.
The old man's voice sliced through Ivan's thoughts. "Those interested in buying the intelligence, please raise your hands."
Four hands rose, a quiet, grim acknowledgement of the survival game that many wizards in Bridgewick played. Most wizards, when they first awakened, ranked between 3E and 5D. Gang influence often helped these new wizards bump up to a D rating, but the climb from D to C was more perilous, a feat that required hunting down five other wizards. And, of course, anyone aiming for C became a bigger target themselves.
Ivan remained still, his hand firmly by his side. He had no interest in joining this brutal scramble. He was preparing to leave Bridgewick and had no desire to climb the ranks by treating others like commodities. Even if he disagreed with the system, his personal power was limited; he couldn't stop this from happening.
The old man gave a small nod, acknowledging the hands in the air. "All right, you may put your hands down. Moving on. The next item is a complete water ghost brain. Thirty dollars. If there's more than one interested, we'll settle by highest bid. Please raise your hands if interested."
Ivan's attention sharpened. Water ghosts; creatures that amphibians morphed into upon awakening, were almost extinct now, as rare as ancient giant salamanders. Their brains, however, retained a unique elemental property of water, making them valuable for all kinds of witchcraft rituals and spellcrafting components. This caught Ivan's interest, though he noted with some disappointment that the old man didn't intend to display the item. Apparently, his reputation alone was supposed to vouch for its authenticity.
Ivan mused silently, "This old man must have built a solid reputation over time. Otherwise, he could get away with selling nothing but empty promises." His mind wandered momentarily. "I wonder if he takes a cut from each sale. How much would he make per transaction?"
It was just an idle thought, a mental diversion. He knew that if he were to seriously approach the gang with business suggestions, they'd only laugh. After a quiet minute, a wizard cloaked in black raised a hand, purchasing the water ghost brain. The transaction was brisk, almost mechanical, and the old man's face showed no hint of satisfaction or excitement as he moved on to the next item.
"The third and fourth items," he continued, "are enchanted props. The first is a flat-top hat that grants the wearer instant proficiency in tap dance, break dance, and disco."
Ivan raised an eyebrow, smirking at the absurdity. Tap dance and disco? Was this really what the wizarding world had come to?
"The second item is a fountain pen," the old man went on, his voice steady. "Anything written with this pen can compel belief in the reader. However, once the ink runs out, the enchantment ends."
The items seemed strange, even a bit silly, yet to Ivan's surprise, both were claimed. It had been a while since he'd attended a gathering like this, and he couldn't help but wonder if the wizarding community had always entertained such eccentricities or if times had simply changed.
Unfazed, the old man introduced the final item of the evening. "And now, the last item; a radius bone left behind by a demonic spirit. Forty dollars. Please raise your hand if interested."
After a pause, the old man's eyes scanned the room, his gaze lingering as he took note of each attendee's reaction. His eyes landed on a man seated in the corner, whose hand was raised high, marking the end of the evening's trading session.
Ivan watched, bemused.