When Sherlock followed John into the so-called intelligence market, he stopped dead.
Across both of his lives, he’d never seen anything like it.
The center of the ruined town had been converted into a massive temporary marketplace.
A ring of small folding rooms had been erected around the remains of shattered walls and collapsed buildings.
Each booth stood slightly apart from the next, with Continental attendants stationed in the gaps.
There was only one entrance.
And right in the middle of the entire arrangement stood a large counter.
Behind it sat the kind of Continental administrative staff Sherlock had only ever seen in the movies during his previous life.
Surrounding the main counter were several smaller setups that looked almost like makeshift bars.
Everything was temporary.
Foldable.
Portable.
Easy to dismantle—or destroy—at a moment’s notice.
Countless hooded figures lined up outside the single entrance.
One by one, they entered a small room beside the gate.
Then they emerged on the other side and disappeared into the market.
Sherlock stared at the procession.
“…This looks less like an intelligence exchange and more like a cult initiation.”
John grabbed him before he could keep gawking and pulled him into line.
While they waited, he began explaining how the market actually worked.
“First, that room beside the entrance belongs to the Continental.”
Sherlock looked toward it.
“Everyone who enters has to identify themselves inside.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone.”
John’s tone made it clear there were no exceptions.
“You can refuse.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“Then you don’t get in.”
“Right.”
Fair enough.
Once someone’s identity was verified, the Continental issued them a wristband.
The band was tied directly to their confirmed identity.
And until they left the market, it couldn’t be removed.
No swapping.
No handing it off.
No disappearing midway through a deal and pretending to be somebody else.
Only after that process was complete were you officially allowed into the intelligence market.
“And once we’re inside?” Sherlock asked.
“Everyone registers what they’re looking for at the central desk.”
“What counts as a request?”
“Anything.”
John didn’t even hesitate.
“Information.
Cash.
Continental coins.
Favors.”
His expression remained perfectly serious.
“People.”
Sherlock glanced at him.
“Even lives.”
Sherlock paused.
“Someone else’s?”
“Or your own.”
“…Charming place.”
Whatever you wanted could be registered with the administrative desk.
Then the Continental matched compatible buyers, sellers, informants, and clients.
The wristband would notify you when and where your meeting was scheduled.
Those folding rooms surrounding the market?
They weren’t storage.
They were meeting rooms.
When both parties entered, the door locked.
And from that moment onward…
whatever happened inside had nothing to do with the Continental.
Sherlock’s eyebrows rose.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
Payment.
Negotiation.
The actual value of the information.
The terms of the exchange.
“Technically,” John added, “you could even beat the information out of someone.”
Sherlock looked at him.
“Seriously?”
“You could rob them too.”
“…And the Continental just allows that?”
John’s mouth twitched.
“I didn’t say it was smart.”
If you attacked the other party, your best hope was to make sure you were the last person who used that room.
And even then, you’d better pray the next person inside didn’t notice enough evidence to report you.
Because if the Continental determined that someone had violated the market’s expectations— they wouldn’t execute the offender.
They wouldn’t declare them excommunicado like the New York branch might.
Instead, they did something far simpler.
Far nastier.
They revealed the person’s identity.
Then confiscated their robe.
Sherlock immediately understood.
“Oh.”
John nodded.
“Exactly.”
This was a war-zone Continental.
Its enforcement wasn’t nearly as absolute as the regular branches.
Here, the robe was what mattered.
Not you.
Not your name.
Not your reputation.
The robe.
As long as you wore it, the Continental’s neutral-ground rules protected you.
Lose it?
You were on your own.
And for someone whose profession involved buying and selling secrets, having your identity publicly exposed in a place full of armed criminals, mercenaries, assassins, spies, and intelligence brokers was functionally a death sentence.
Maybe you survived until sunrise.
Maybe you didn’t even make it out of the room.
The rule only applied to people who weren’t Continental staff and no longer had robe protection.
But that was more than enough.
Sherlock looked around the market again.
“So basically, the robe is a portable safe-zone permit.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“And losing it is like a hacker posting their real name, home address, bank details, and search history online.”
John gave him a sideways look.
“…Also one way to put it.”
Sherlock nodded.
Brutal.
Efficient.
And surprisingly elegant.
Especially because this Continental branch barely existed in the traditional sense.
The entire operation moved constantly.
A ruined town today.
Some abandoned settlement tomorrow.
And in this part of the Middle East, there was no shortage of bombed-out towns and empty villages capable of hosting it.
The more John explained, the more Sherlock had to admit one thing.
The Continental knew how to do business.
From a systems perspective, this entire market was basically an artificial dark forest.
Everyone was anonymous to everyone else.
Everyone had something they wanted.
Everyone had something to hide.
And everyone knew the person across from them might be lying.
Because nowhere in the market’s rules did it say the information being sold had to be true.
Fake intelligence?
Perfectly legal.
Which meant every transaction was fundamentally a game of deception.
Who believed whom.
Who knew more.
Who could verify what.
Who could bluff better.
But the cleverest part wasn’t even the market itself.
It was the Continental.
They were the ones maintaining the entire system.
And by doing so, they collected the most accurate information in the building without needing to buy a damn thing.
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
Because every participant had already verified their identity.
And every participant had to publicly register one thing with the Continental:
And a person’s need was information.
Often extremely valuable information.
Connect the request to the identity behind it, and you could infer an enormous amount.
A weapons dealer suddenly seeking evacuation routes?
Interesting.
A politician offering a fortune for information about one mercenary group?
Very interesting.
An assassin asking after a specific target?
That alone could reveal who’d hired them, who feared the target, or what larger conflict was unfolding.
All of that information flowed straight into the Continental.
Then, eventually, back into its network.
Back into favors.
Back into deals.
Back into gold coins.
Sherlock almost wanted to applaud.
It was practically free intelligence.
Of course, anyone smart enough to work in intelligence would realize that immediately.
So why participate?
Why voluntarily hand the Continental clues about your own intentions?
Two reasons.
Trust.
And safety.
The Continental had spent centuries building its reputation.
People believed that whatever information it gathered wouldn’t simply be leaked to the highest bidder on a whim.
More importantly, it enforced the structure of the market.
That structure made intelligence trading safer than doing business in some alley with a stranger who might shoot you the second you handed over payment.
That safety was worth the cost.
Sherlock couldn’t help seeing the resemblance to the way major financial systems worked.
Trust built over generations.
Power backing that trust.
And eventually, an entire ecosystem that people participated in because refusing to participate was more inconvenient than accepting the terms.
He had to respect it.
The Continental had basically constructed a system where everyone understood they were being exploited…
and still willingly lined up for the privilege.
Sherlock had only one response.
“Damn.”
John glanced at him.
“This place is impressive.”
And the most impressive part was that the strategy was almost impossible to reject.
It reminded Sherlock of one of those cursed food challenges from his previous life.
Refuse to eat it?
Then you couldn’t criticize the dish because you hadn’t tasted it.
Eat it?
Congratulations.
You’d just voluntarily eaten something disgusting in public.
Either way, the system won.
For Sherlock—a former corporate drone turned five-year professional shut-in—the entire operation was eye-opening.
He’d thought he’d escaped office politics.
Apparently the assassin economy had simply invented a more honest version.
The line slowly moved forward.
Eventually, Sherlock reached the small room at the entrance.
The identity verification process was surprisingly simple.
He stepped inside.
Closed the door.
Scanned his fingerprint.
Then removed his robe long enough for the system to take a photograph.
That was it.
A machine beside him clicked.
A metal band snapped shut around his wrist.
Sherlock tested it.
Solid.
No visible clasp.
No obvious release mechanism.
Apparently John hadn’t been exaggerating about the whole “you don’t take it off until you leave” part.
Sherlock pulled his robe back on.
The hood once again concealed his face.
Then the door on the opposite side opened.
Beyond it waited the intelligence market.
Sherlock stepped through.
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