Jared eased the side door open just enough to slip through, wincing as the old hinges gave a low squeal. He froze, heart thudding in his chest, and listened for any reaction from inside. When no alarms rang out and no shouts of discovery followed, he exhaled a shaky breath, motioning for Marcus to follow. They were in—a shadowy corridor smelling faintly of saltwater, decay, and something chemical.
A single, flickering overhead bulb revealed flaked paint and exposed pipes running the length of the corridor. Somewhere deeper in the building, low voices and the scrape of crates on concrete drifted like a distant current. Jared exchanged a glance with Marcus, who gave a slight nod and clutched a small bag of makeshift gear more tightly.
"Let's find the catwalk," Jared murmured, recalling how Marcus's blueprint indicated an upper-level walkway spanning the interior of Greyline Depot. From there, they might observe the auction without being immediately spotted.
They crept forward, each footstep carefully placed to avoid rattling the aging floor. With every step, Jared's pulse hammered, his nerves taut as if bracing for an ambush. The memory of losing the Shades of Authority cut through his mind. That artifact was more than a curiosity; it was the key to clearing his name and unraveling the Syndicate's secrets.
Soon, the corridor opened into a wide, empty storage bay. Moonlight slipped through cracked skylights, illuminating cargo pallets piled against the walls. Jared spotted a yellow metal staircase leading upward. Silently, he and Marcus moved toward it, doing their best to blend with the gloom.
At the base of the staircase, Marcus paused, pulled a small handheld device from his bag, and affixed a tiny directional microphone to its tip. He aimed it over the edge of the empty bay, calibrating the frequency. "I'm picking up a lot of chatter from further in," he whispered. "Sounds like an auction is about to start soon."
Jared nodded, swallowing the ball of anxiety lodged in his throat. "Let's get a vantage point."
They ascended the stairs. Each step creaked, but the noise was lost beneath muffled voices that echoed from an adjoining chamber. At the top, a narrow catwalk stretched overhead, partially concealed by ancient rafters and overhead lighting fixtures. Jared tested the first metal grate with his foot. It held, though it complained under his weight. Marcus followed, crouching low to minimize his silhouette.
From this elevated corridor, they peered down through a cluster of hanging lights and rusted beams. Below them, an expansive warehouse floor came into view. The space was cleared of typical debris, replaced by rows of chairs arranged around a makeshift stage. Men and women in suits and fine dresses, incongruous amid the peeling walls and dim floodlights, milled about in hushed conversation. A handful of guards in black tactical gear stood at strategic points, rifles slung across their chests.
Jared's breath caught. This is bigger than I thought. He had imagined a clandestine meeting of a few criminals; instead, it looked like a high-end black-market bazaar.
Marcus nudged him, pointing to the far side of the floor. A large metal table displayed various items—some crated, others draped in cloth or resting on velvet stands. An auctioneer dressed in an impeccable black suit busied himself with item lists on a clipboard. The swirl symbol adorned a banner hanging behind him, half-hidden in the dim overhead light.
"That must be them," Marcus whispered. "The Swirl Syndicate in full force."
Jared scanned the crowd. His gaze caught on a figure near the stage: a tall woman with severe cheekbones, wearing a sleek silver dress. A swirl tattoo curled around her forearm, visible beneath sheer fabric. She chatted with someone who looked like an Asian businessman, both gesturing toward a cluster of crates. Even from this height, the woman radiated command.
"Any sign of Ava?" Jared asked, voice barely audible.
Marcus lifted the directional mic, slowly panning it across the gathering. Beneath the hum of conversations, a few distinct phrases came through:
"Authentic relics…""Armory-grade prototypes…""Don't let them outbid you…"
Then Marcus froze, pointing again. There, stepping from behind a tall crate, was Ava Brooks, her hair pinned back in a neat chignon, dressed in a conservative black blazer and skirt as though she were a legitimate broker. She held a slim folder and kept her shoulders squared with feigned confidence. Two men flanked her—likely Syndicate ushers—leading her to an empty seat near the front row.
Relief washed over Jared: she had made it inside safely, at least for now. He could almost see the tension in her posture, but she seemed to maintain a calm, professional demeanor as the men departed.
A hush fell over the crowd when the auctioneer strode to the center of the stage and tapped a small microphone. The surrounding lights dimmed, and a single spotlight illuminated him.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, voice echoing in the cavernous space, "welcome to tonight's exclusive gathering. We are pleased to offer you items of the rarest and most exquisite nature—from technological marvels to relics of whispered legend."
He smiled, revealing perfect teeth as he turned a page on his clipboard. "Tonight's highlight is an item you may have heard rumors about: the Shades of Authority."
Jared's stomach clenched. There it was, spelled out in front of a crowd of smugglers, traffickers, and black-market aristocrats. A murmur rippled through the seated buyers. On the catwalk, Jared's heart pounded, adrenaline surging at the mention of the stolen artifact that had upended his life.
A guard wheeled out a small glass display case covered by a black velvet cloth, positioning it under the spotlight. The auctioneer stepped aside, letting the anticipation build.
Marcus's voice was barely more than a breath in Jared's ear. "We've gotta get closer, or we'll never be able to snatch it."
Jared shook his head. "Too many guards. We need a distraction."
As the auctioneer continued with flamboyant introductions—citing the lens's purported ability to heighten perception, uncover hidden truths, and even grant users an edge in conflict—Marcus gently pointed his microphone downward, fiddling with the frequency. "I'll see if I can pick up a private channel. If these guys are using radios to coordinate, I might be able to cause interference."
Meanwhile, Jared's gaze flicked to Ava. She sat quietly, pen in hand as if taking notes. No one seemed to be paying her undue attention, but that could change in an instant, especially if the Syndicate recognized her from earlier snooping or discovered her real identity.
On the stage, the tall woman in the silver dress—the same one Jared had spotted earlier—now stepped forward. She leaned in to murmur something to the auctioneer, who nodded. Then she took his place at the microphone.
"Honored guests," she began, voice smooth and poised, "I'm Selina Vaughn, a representative of the Swirl Syndicate. We appreciate your presence here. Let me assure you, the authenticity and power of the Shades of Authority has been verified by several… shall we say, specialists."
Jared grit his teeth at the name. He'd never heard of Selina Vaughn before, but there was no mistaking the authority in her posture. She exuded a confidence that suggested a leadership role within the Syndicate.
Selina gestured, and an attendant pulled away the black velvet, revealing a pair of antique-looking spectacles locked in a transparent case. The lenses glinted eerily under the spotlight, their frames etched with the familiar swirling symbols. Even from the catwalk, Jared felt a visceral jolt of recognition. Those were the lenses the old man had given him, the lenses that had let him perceive auras in a street fight, that had drawn him into this labyrinth of danger and deceit.
A wave of murmuring spread through the room, underpinned by the slightest hint of awe. Bidders glanced at one another, some smirking as though dismissing it as superstition, others leaning forward with rapt interest.
Selina kept talking, her smile as sharp as a razor. "The starting bid is two million dollars. We'll move in increments of two hundred thousand. I trust our esteemed audience will find that quite reasonable for such… unique capabilities."
Marcus hissed through his teeth, eyes wide. "Two million? These people are serious."
Before Jared could respond, the microphone in Marcus's hand crackled. He fiddled with the dial, and a muffled conversation came through:
"—locking down all outside doors. Make sure no one interrupts.""Security said something about suspicious movement near the east corridor.""Send a team to check it out."
Marcus and Jared exchanged alarmed looks. "We're the suspicious movement," Jared muttered. "We need to move, now."
They crept along the catwalk, trying to stay in the shadows. Far below, the auction began in earnest. A man with slicked-back hair raised a paddle, shouting out a new bid. Ava's head swiveled, scanning the crowd—likely searching for a sign from Jared or some clue on how to proceed.
Just then, footsteps clanged on the lower stairs they'd used to ascend. Light beams swept across the empty storage bay behind them. Jared's breath seized in his chest. If they got cornered on the catwalk, they'd have no escape but a desperate drop to the floor.
Marcus signaled for him to keep moving forward, deeper into the overhead system of walkways. They navigated a narrow bend that ran parallel to the stage. Below, Selina graced the crowd with her polished smile as bids escalated quickly:
"Two point six million… Do I hear two point eight…?"
A flash of silver glinted at Selina's forearm as she gestured—a swirl tattoo, the same brand Jared had come to fear. She exuded an almost magnetic presence, like a commander orchestrating her troops.
Meanwhile, Ava rose from her seat, smoothing her skirt and stepping into the aisle. Jared tensed. Was she making her move? She looked as though she might approach the stage, but at the last moment she turned and headed toward a side hallway, perhaps to gather intel or find a vantage point.
Beneath the catwalk, two guards marched along, scanning the overhead beams with flashlights. One paused, shining the beam upward. The light nearly grazed Jared's face before he ducked behind a rusted support column. Marcus flattened himself against the metal grating, trying to blend into the gloom.
The guard muttered something indistinct and moved on, apparently not noticing them. Jared let out a slow, silent exhale. They had seconds—maybe a minute—before the next patrol sweep.
Leaning toward Marcus, Jared whispered, "We need a diversion so Ava can do whatever she's planning. Otherwise, we'll never grab the glasses."
Marcus nodded. "I can overload the circuit controlling these floodlights. That might cause a blackout or at least a flicker. Give us a window."
A shout from below cut through the hum of bidding. One of the men in suits stood up, outraged at another bidder's attempt to trump his offer. The crowd momentarily erupted in heated whispers, though Selina maintained a cool, authoritative stance at the microphone, urging civility.
Marcus rummaged through his bag, retrieving a small device rigged from circuit boards and a phone battery. "Cover me," he mouthed. Then he crawled a few meters along the catwalk, nearing an old fuse box mounted on a steel column. Jared positioned himself to keep an eye on the guards below.
After a few frantic moments of tinkering, Marcus managed to pry open the fuse box. Sparks crackled as he attached his device to the corroded wiring. A tension-laden pause followed, and Jared could almost hear Marcus's heart hammering in tandem with his own.
Suddenly, half the overhead lights in Greyline Depot flickered wildly, plunging one side of the warehouse into intermittent darkness. The auctioneer's voice faltered, and Selina spun around, snapping commands at nearby guards. The crowd erupted into a confused murmur.
"Now," Marcus urged, dashing back to Jared's side. "Go find Ava or the glasses. I'll keep the system glitching as long as I can."
Jared nodded, adrenaline blazing. "Don't get caught."
In the strobing chaos, they parted ways. Jared crept along the catwalk's length, searching for a safe descent point. Below him, the swirling gloom revealed harried guards shining flashlights, while suspicious buyers rose from their chairs. The artifact's display case sat unattended on the stage for a moment, vulnerable.
Catching a glimpse of Ava at the edge of the crowd, Jared saw her slip behind the curtain that flanked the stage area, presumably aiming to get closer to the glasses or gather more evidence. If she got there first, maybe she could secure the artifact until Jared arrived.
As he ducked under a low beam, Jared's mind spun with possibilities. He had to retrieve the Shades of Authority, but the Syndicate was on high alert. One false step, and they'd have him pinned in seconds. But if he did nothing, the relic would be lost forever, along with any hope of clearing his name.
A guard's shout snapped him out of his thoughts. A flashlight beam cut across the catwalk, dancing off metal. Cursing under his breath, Jared realized he had nowhere to hide this time—he'd have to act. Gritting his teeth, he grasped the railing and prepared to leap to a nearby stack of crates below, hoping to vanish into the darkness.
He paused, heart hammering, as he heard Selina Vaughn's voice ring out through the partially dead microphone, echoing in the half-lit void:
"Whoever is responsible for this power failure," she declared, ice threading her tone, "will face the Syndicate's full wrath. Guards—search every corner. We will not tolerate interference."
Jared shivered. There was no turning back. This was the crucible he'd been forced into. Taking one last breath, he vaulted off the catwalk, plummeting toward the crates below, determined to beat the Syndicate at its own game and reclaim what had been taken from him—no matter the cost.