The walk back to the Hollowlight Guild’s local branch office was heavy with the buzzing remnants of adrenaline and magic. Rowan adjusted the strap on his spellgun holster, feeling the comfortable weight against his side. Mika bounced alongside him, her tail flicking in wide arcs that barely missed smacking him every few steps.

  “You know,” Mika chirped, hands clasped behind her head, “if it weren’t for me, we’d still be stuck in that gross subway hellhole. You should be thanking me. Maybe, like, a coffee. Or a shrine in my honor.”

  Rowan smirked. “I’ll think about it. Maybe a “Missing: Catgirl, Last Seen Being Obnoxious” poster.”

  Mika gasped dramatically, clutching her chest like he’d stabbed her. “Betrayed. Et tu, Rowan?” She dragged her boots as if wounded, then immediately brightened again. “But seriously, coffee? I’m adorable. I deserve it.”

  Vera, walking a few paces ahead, didn’t even glance back. “You’re lucky we’re not docking your share for the mess you made with that spirit cluster.”

  Mika sniffed haughtily. “Collateral damage builds character.”

  Rowan exchanged a look with Vera. The unspoken agreement passed between them: You take the report. I’ll deal with her.

  Vera gave a short nod. “I’ll handle the paperwork. You two, stay put. No wandering.”

  Rowan saluted lazily. “Yes, Mom.”

  Mika immediately burst into giggles. Vera just shook her head and disappeared into the Guild office’s labyrinthine halls, boots clicking sharply against polished floors.

  The Hollowlight Guild’s local branch was half-industrial chic, half-ancient arcane tradition. Wide vaulted ceilings bore spellwoven banners depicting the Guild’s founding, and holo-screens flickered next to old marble statues. The air smelled of burning mana and cheap cafeteria coffee.

  Rowan found a half-empty waiting lounge and steered Mika toward it.

  “Here,” he said, nudging her toward a seat.

  Mika immediately ignored the chairs and sprawled out across a low table, tail dangling over the edge.

  “Seriously?” Rowan asked.

  “I’m conserving energy. Post-mission recovery.” She wriggled dramatically. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Rowan snorted and sat properly, glancing around. Other low-ranked Fixers milled about: Grade 9s and 8s mostly, fresh faces still nursing bruises and singed clothing from their own assignments. A few more experienced ones lounged with practiced boredom, fiddling with enchanted devices or checking assignment boards.

  “Hey, Rowboat,” Mika said, peeking one amber eye open, “wanna hear a theory?”

  “No.”

  “Good, ‘cause I’m telling you anyway.”

  Rowan leaned back, resigned.

  “I think,” Mika said, flipping onto her stomach and propping her chin on her hands, “that Vera’s trying to get promoted.”

  Rowan raised a brow. “Obviously.”

  “No, no, like fast. She takes all the scary jobs, right? And she treats us like a real team, even though we’re basically the Guild equivalent of a box of abandoned kittens.”

  Rowan considered that. “Or maybe,” he said dryly, “she’s just a responsible person.”

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  Mika rolled onto her back again. “Boooring.”

  Still, Rowan couldn’t deny it. Vera had been pushing them hard lately—harder than most Grade 8s bothered with. Maybe she was trying to hit Grade 7 soon. Maybe she had her eye on forming a named Cell, the kind that got top-tier missions and real respect.

  He glanced at Mika, who was currently attempting to balance a sugar packet on her nose.

  God help Vera if that’s her plan, he thought.

  Fifteen minutes later, Mika was deep in a battle of wills with a vending machine.

  “You owe me a soda!” she hissed, kicking the base. “I fed you! I fed you, you metal demon!”

  Rowan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mika, just pick another one.”

  “No! It’s a matter of principle!”

  The machine whirred ominously.

  “Principle,” Mika repeated firmly.

  A junior Fixer passing by gave Rowan a wide berth, eyeing the scene warily.

  Finally, Rowan stepped forward, pulled out a focus token—a small coin imbued with regulated mana—and tapped it against the payment panel. With a grumpy clunk, a soda dropped into the tray.

  Mika gasped, cradling the can like a rescued kitten.

  “My hero!” she chirped. Then with a wicked grin, she added, “Wow, first you buy me coffee, now you’re rescuing my soda. It’s basically a date.”

  Rowan groaned. “It’s not a date.”

  “Too late, you already bought me something. That’s binding.” Mika winked exaggeratedly.

  Rowan opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, a familiar voice called out.

  “Cell 43!”

  He turned to see an older Fixer—a Grade 6, if Rowan remembered right—waving a clipboard. Short, powerfully built, with a prosthetic arm that gleamed with etched runes.

  “Guildmaster wants you in briefing room 3.”

  Rowan blinked. That was fast.

  Mika stuffed the soda into her hoodie pouch and bounded after him. “Maybe it’s a congratulations party! Maybe we’re getting a medal!”

  Rowan followed more cautiously, instincts prickling. The Guild rarely called low-ranked Cells in for face-to-face meetings unless something weird was happening.

  Briefing Room 3 was cramped and windowless, lit by a single overhead crystal that hummed softly. Vera stood at attention near the far wall, her posture stiff.

  Seated behind a rune-carved desk was Guildmaster Arlen Vos—a grizzled elf whose silver hair and lined face spoke of centuries of service. His eyes, sharp and pale as winter, fixed on them the moment they entered.

  “Cell 43,” Vos said. His voice was calm, but carried the weight of command.

  Rowan and Mika saluted automatically. Mika’s tail twitched, betraying her nerves.

  “Your mission,” Vos continued, “was completed successfully. Minimal casualties. Collateral damage acceptable.”

  Rowan exhaled slowly. Good.

  “However,” Vos said, steepling his fingers, “the incident has raised… concerning questions.”

  Vera spoke up. “Sir?”

  Vos flicked his hand, and a holo-image sprang up over the desk—a distorted, grainy replay of the spirit attack from earlier. The cloud of spirits twisting together into that massive, almost intelligent shape.

  “Standard procedure,” Vos said, “is to seal collapsed arcane spaces and neutralize residual entities. Low-grade spirits do not demonstrate tactical behavior.”

  Rowan frowned. He’s right. That thing moved with purpose.

  “This,” Vos said, tapping the image, “was not random. It was summoned.”

  Mika’s ears flattened. Rowan felt a chill crawl up his spine.

  “Preliminary analysis suggests external manipulation,” Vos continued. “Unauthorized magic.”

  “Another guild?” Vera asked, tone careful.

  “Possibly. Or a rogue element. Regardless, the Hollowlight Guild cannot permit such breaches.”

  He leaned forward.

  “Which is why, Cell 43, you will be reassigned. Effective immediately.”

  Rowan stiffened. Mika’s tail went ramrod straight.

  “You will investigate these disturbances,” Vos said. “Undercover.”

  Rowan opened his mouth, closed it. Mika blurted, “Wait, undercover undercover? Like, fake names and secret handshakes?”

  Vos’ mouth twitched in what might have been a smile.

  “Discretion will be vital. You are low-ranked enough to avoid attention. Use that.”

  Vera bowed slightly. “Understood, Guildmaster.”

  “Good.” Vos flicked a data crystal toward them. Rowan caught it reflexively. “Your first lead is embedded there. A series of disappearances linked to minor magic black markets.”

  He stood, a silent dismissal.

  “Welcome,” he said, “to the real work.”

  Outside the briefing room, Mika exploded.

  “WE’RE SPIES!” she shouted, bouncing in place. “We’re like, like, James Bond but with more fur and explosives!”

  Rowan pocketed the data crystal and sighed. “You’re going to get us all arrested.”

  “Pfft. I’m an excellent spy. I’m sneaky as hell.” She immediately turned a stumble over a floor sigil into an effortless cartwheel, landing with a bow.

  Several passing Fixers clapped politely.

  Vera offered Rowan a tired look. He returned it.

  “Alright,” Vera said, gathering them with a sharp gesture. “First thing: low profile. Second thing: prep. Third thing: no blowing anything up unless absolutely necessary.”

  “Define ‘necessary,’” Mika said brightly.

  “If I say so.”

  Mika saluted with a wide grin.

  Rowan allowed himself a small grin.

  Maybe—just maybe—they’d survive this.

  Or die spectacularly. That was also an option.

  Either way, it was going to be interesting.