Rowan kicked his boots up onto the low table of their cramped, borrowed “office” and stared at the cracked ceiling tile directly above him. The hum of the Guild’s auxiliary systems buzzed in the background, mixing with the faint, flickering light of an aging mana lamp.

  Mika was perched on the sagging arm of the battered couch, her tail swishing like a metronome of growing impatience.

  “Soooo,” Mika drawled, stretching the word like gum, “when do we get to do the cool stuff?”

  Rowan didn’t even glance at her. “This is the cool stuff.”

  “Waiting?” Mika practically shrieked. “Sitting in a dumpy little closet-office, twiddling our thumbs while Vera meets with the Guild’s info-brokers is not what I signed up for.”

  “Welcome to the thrilling world of espionage,” Rowan said dryly.

  Mika groaned and slid bonelessly onto the couch next to him, sprawling until her feet dangled over the armrest.

  Vera had left them here an hour ago with strict instructions: “Stay put. Stay quiet. Don’t draw attention.”

  Mika had lasted five minutes before beginning her slow, inevitable descent into chaos.

  “At least let me break into something,” she whined.

  “No.”

  “Just a little lockpick? A minor hack?”

  “No.”

  “What about graffiti?”

  Rowan sighed. “How would that help?”

  “Morale boost.” She grinned wickedly. “Nothing says ‘we’re totally competent’ like doodling a mustache on a Guild poster.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Vera would kill you.”

  “Pfft. Vera loves me. I’m adorable.”

  Rowan side-eyed her. “You’re a menace.”

  “An adorable menace.”

  She flipped upside down, hanging her head off the seat so her hair brushed the floor. Rowan ignored her. He was used to it by now.

  After another minute of fidgeting, Mika sat up sharply.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Idea!”

  “No,” Rowan said instantly.

  “You don’t even know what it is yet!”

  “Statistically speaking, it’s a terrible idea.”

  “Statistically speaking,” Mika mocked, “you’re boring.”

  Before he could retort, the door creaked open, and Vera stepped inside, carrying a worn leather folder under one arm.

  Both Rowan and Mika straightened immediately.

  “Status?” Rowan asked.

  “Preliminary information,” Vera said, tossing the folder onto the table. It landed with a heavy thud. “Nothing actionable yet.”

  Mika slumped back down with an exaggerated groan.

  Vera ignored her and continued, “The disappearances are localized around three districts: South Dusk, the Warrens, and the Vitrified Heights.”

  Rowan frowned. “All magic-heavy areas.”

  “Exactly. Black market spell trade is thick there. Lots of illegal enchanting, off-the-books augmentation clinics, forbidden rituals—you name it.”

  She flipped the folder open, revealing a map of the city. Red marks bloomed across the paper like bloodstains.

  “Our job,” Vera said, tapping each marked point, “is to figure out the connection.”

  “Do we have a lead?” Rowan asked.

  “Not yet,” Vera admitted. “The Guild’s covert assets are digging. Until then, we watch, listen, and prepare.”

  Mika made a strangled sound. “More waiting?!”

  “Yes,” Vera said flatly.

  Mika slid dramatically off the couch, landing in a heap on the floor. “I’m gonna die. I’m gonna literally die.”

  “Good,” Vera said, entirely without heat. “You’ll be quieter that way.”

  Rowan chuckled under his breath.

  They split up tasks after that, despite Mika’s ongoing protests.

  Rowan was assigned to maintenance: checking their equipment, registering minor spells they might need licensed under the Guild’s temporary espionage coverage. Vera coordinated with the Guild’s intelligence networks, leaving Mika with “miscellaneous duties” — a fancy way of saying “stay out of trouble.”

  Mika, naturally, took this as a challenge.

  By mid-afternoon, she’d already “borrowed” three new trinkets from the requisitions department (“They’ll never miss a grappling rune if they don’t know it exists”) and had drawn an extremely detailed caricature of Vera yelling into a clipboard on the office wall.

  When Rowan caught her in the act, she just grinned unapologetically.

  “Art heals the soul, Rowboat.”

  “You’re going to heal yourself with a mop when Vera sees that.”

  Later, they gathered around the battered table again, reviewing what little they had.

  “Disappearance rates spike during specific lunar alignments,” Vera said, pointing to a chart.

  Rowan tapped his chin. “Tied to ritual magic, maybe?”

  “Could be. Also,” Vera added grimly, “no bodies. No witnesses. No recovered traces of standard death spells.”

  Mika leaned forward, intrigued despite herself. “So it’s, like… abducting, not killing?”

  “Possibly.”

  Rowan leaned back. “That suggests organization. Planning.”

  “Exactly.”

  They all sat in thoughtful silence for a moment.

  Finally, Mika sighed and flopped back dramatically. “This is worse than waiting for a pizza delivery.”

  Vera ignored her. “First thing tomorrow, we start canvassing. Subtle. Posing as buyers, runners, scavengers—whatever fits.”

  “What about today?” Mika whined.

  “Today,” Vera said firmly, “you rest.”

  Mika made a face like she’d been told to eat nails.

  Rowan, on the other hand, was almost grateful. He could feel the exhaustion coiling in his muscles, the lingering mental haze from channeling too much magic during the subway incident.

  Vera handed each of them a small, rune-marked comm crystal.

  “Encrypted channels. Only for Cell 43 communication. Lose it, and I’ll staple it to your forehead.”

  Mika held hers up like it was a precious jewel.

  “Neat.”

  Rowan pocketed his without comment.

  “Get some sleep,” Vera ordered. “Tomorrow, the real work begins.”