Driven out of the café by the incessant festive music, Emz took a circuitous route with several Metro changes, half-hoping to stumble across Gary—which he didn’t. He surfaced early at the Bs, the corner of Bowie and Bront?, far northwest of Poyz, high up in the posh Norton neighbourhood. It was a moneyed area, lined with grand international hotels and elegant apartment blocks. Heavy iron gates adorned with intricate gold filigree opened into lavish lobbies, each guarded by uniformed doormen. Standing at attention in the cold air, they were poised to warmly greet guests and owners while swiftly expelling any unwanted riff-raff.

  Emz, acutely aware that he probably resembled riff-raff in his new but unfashionable winter clothing, strolled east along Bront? without lingering. He crossed intersections with Cash, Dylan, and, at Ellington, paused to look south. This stretch was known as Theatre Mile, lined with huge, glitzy signs advertising the latest productions at its many theatres. It always reminded him vaguely of central London. Continuing along Bront?, he passed more intersections until he reached Joplin and entered another notable area of Bront? Boulevard.

  This stretch of the east-west road housed art galleries, antique bookstores, and jewellery boutiques, spanning several elegant blocks. It was nearly 11 p.m., and the area was silent, the expensive boutiques locked up tight for the night. Emz double-checked the location and time on his wearable before walking a couple more blocks. At the corner of Liszt, he paused. He had no idea who the north-south street was named after or how to pronounce it properly. Was it just “List,” or did you have to exaggerate the “z”?

  Adjacent to a snow-dusted street sign stood a boutique with a store sign reading ‘Drexler-Kunstgalerie’. The main retail lights were off, but a soft glow emanated from within. Emz checked the client intel on his screen, pulling up a photo of the owner, Matthias Drexler. The man appeared to be in his late forties, with an eccentric, artsy look: impossibly sharp cheekbones, a narrow jawline, a prominent aquiline nose, and thin, severe lips. His hair was styled into a thick ash-blond quiff, swept back and curled into a point on the left side, resembling a golden wave cresting over his serve undercut. Thick platinum glasses framed his pale grey eyes, adding to his distinctive appearance. Emz stared at the picture, uncertain. Was the look avant-garde, retro, or just a bit wanky?

  Hiding his wrist screen, Emz stepped up to the frosted glass entrance and rapped confidently. A moment later, he saw movement through the gloom as the glow from within flickered. Someone approached the door and opened it, a rush of warm air spilling out.

  “Emmer?” the tall, lithe man inquired, neither friendly nor cold, his soft Germanic accent punctuating the word. His grey eyes scanned Emz from behind thick metallic glasses.

  “It’s just Emz. I’m here to, um, fix an issue.”

  The man glanced up and down the street, offered the faintest smile—a brief gesture of hospitality—and ushered Emz inside. “Come, come.”

  The gallery was a vast, mostly open space, with a few central white walls partitioning the room to display paintings and other artworks. Spotlights illuminated certain pieces, casting shadows that made the space feel intimate despite its size. Directly in front of the entrance, welcoming potential customers, was a large photo of the artist himself: a close-up profile shot of him bare-chested, holding a golden rodent against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains. Both the man and the animal wore matching quizzical expressions, locked in a gaze.

  The tall man placed a long slim finger on his pointed chin, contemplating the photo alongside Emz. “It took many hours to capture the moment when the Murmeltier could see me as I saw him,” the artist explained.

  Emz had seen copies of the photo during his research. It looked even stranger in person—clearly a composite, and he seemed noticeably less ripped. Emz guessed it was supposed to symbolise something about man and nature, but he didn’t really care. Definitely wanky. “It’s... something,” he offered. “So, what do you need me to do?”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  His host lingered on the photo a moment longer, then beckoned Emz to follow him deeper into the gallery. They passed framed sketches, paintings, a large screen displaying an array of NFT cartoon monkeys in various outfits, and some brutal black-and-white war photography.

  At the back of the gallery, displayed prominently in a place of honour, hung a dark painting composed of small, distinct squares, giving it an 8-bit pixelated appearance. It depicted a background of black bricks, overlaid with a large gold money-mouth face emoji. The painting was titled ‘Money Happens’.

  “There it is, my prized piece,” The artist said, a look of genuine pride softening his otherwise severe expression. A faint, satisfied smile curved his lips as he tilted his head in admiration. “I used obsidian powder to capture the rich dark texture of the vault bricks, with actual gold to paint the face. For the eyes and mouth, I used onyx to achieve a contrasting deep matte blackness.”

  After a moment’s reverie, he turned to Emz. “Do you like it?”

  Emz nodded. “Yeah, it’s cool,” he replied.

  The client exhaled a long, reluctant sigh. “I need you to sell it for me.”

  “Okay. But why do you need me?”

  The artist’s gaze lingered on Emz. “I have been offered a price considerably above market value, though the buyer does not wish to register it as an asset.”

  Emz nodded slowly, understanding immediately. Newland’s tax system was distinctive, eschewing traditional income or business taxes in favour of two primary levies: a consumption-based sales tax and a wealth tax. This approach fostered a business-friendly environment, attracted global talent, and maintained equity through a Citizen Basic Income payment. By not declaring an expensive taxable asset, the buyer could circumvent an increase in their wealth tax—an act that was highly illegal, with severe penalties for all parties involved.

  The client adjusted his metallic glasses. “I am not an expert in these matters, but I saw many positive comments about your work on certain forums. Though you seem to have gone quiet on certain black-market threads,” he added, leaving it as an implicit question.

  Emz shrugged. “Yeah, I lost my tech guy, so I’ve been more old-school lately.” He glanced back at the painting. It seemed an easy enough task—depending on the buyer. “So, where’s it going?”

  The artist hesitated briefly, judging Emz. “Do you know of Bogdan Petrovi??”

  Emz’s brow furrowed. “Yeah, he’s a big-time trafficker. Based around here in Norton.” Petrovi? had a reputation for being humourless, ruthless, and well-connected—one of the most formidable black market figures in Newland to cross paths with.

  “It is he who wants my painting.”

  “What’s my cut?”

  “He will pay two million eurocoins for the art. 1% goes to the delivery person.” The client fixed Emz with a searching look. “Can you handle this with Petrovi??”

  Confidence was king. “Yeah,” Emz agreed coolly. “What’s the arrangement?”

  “At 2 a.m., you will take my painting to his penthouse at the Gemini Building, on Bowie and Elliot. Use the service entrance and elevator. His appraiser will check the authenticity, then transfer 1% to you and the rest to my offshore account. Then we are done.”

  “Okay,” Emz acknowledged. “And how are you hiding the sale in your accounts?”

  “I will mark it as a foreign buyer, transferring the money from offshore. That part is already arranged.” The client glanced back at the painting. “I do not need you for that part.”

  “Okay.”

  Without another word, the artist pulled white cotton gloves from his pocket and slipped them on, then carefully lifted the painting. He walked it over to the desk at the front of the store, with Emz trailing behind. For the first time, Emz noticed that the client was wearing significant heel extensions, a detail that made him roll his eyes at the vanity. The artist placed the painting into a reinforced black art portfolio case. After securing it with a weatherproof cover, he hesitated, his fingers lingering on the zipper as if weighing something in his mind.

  “Can I trust you?”

  “Yes,” Emz said firmly. “You’ve done your research. I always get the job done.”

  The client studied him for a moment, then handed over the case. “If you fail to deliver this on time, I will arrange a hit on you. Please take note.”

  Emz smiled reassuringly. “It will be delivered at 2 a.m., as instructed.”