The idea that a destitute, masked stranger in a torn jacket was standing at a premium counter demanding a professional trial was apparently the funniest thing they’d seen all week.
Greg soaked it in. His face was still red, but now the anger had been replaced by something sweeter. Vindication. The crowd was on his side, and he knew it.
He leaned forward over the counter, his grin stretching ear to ear.
"A professional trial?" Greg repeated, savoring every syllable. "You want a professional trial? Fine. Let’s do this the professional way."
He held up one finger.
"Produce a certificate of authenticity. A legally binding one. Issued by a licensed appraisal agency, a military logistics division, or a recognized corporate laboratory. Any of the three will do."
He held up a second finger.
"Produce a valid trader’s license. Registered with the Syndicate. With your real name, your real face, and your real organizational affiliation."
He held up a third finger.
"Or produce a single person in this building who will vouch for you. One person. Anyone. A colleague, an employer, a guild master. Anyone at all."
He lowered his hand and spread both arms wide, gesturing at the crowd behind Micah.
"You have none of those things, do you? No license. No certificate. No friends. Just a mask, a stolen bottle of blue water, and a lot of audacity."
The crowd laughed again.
Micah said nothing. He couldn’t say anything, because Greg was right. He had no license. No certificate. No organizational backing. No legal identity that could be connected to this vial without exposing his academy recruitment status. He was a ghost, and ghosts didn’t carry paperwork.
His silence was all the answer Greg needed.
"Nothing to say?" Greg’s voice was loud enough now that people on the second level were leaning over the railing to see what was happening. "No paperwork? No friends? No defense? Just silence?"
He turned to the lead guard and threw both hands up.
"He’s obviously guilty. Detain him. Confiscate the merchandise. And run his face through the database the second we get that mask off him. I guarantee you he’s got a record."
The lead guard activated his energy baton. The weapon crackled to life, the tip glowing a sharp, electric blue that cast harsh shadows across the counter. The second guard did the same on Micah’s left flank.
"Last chance," the lead guard said. "Hand over the vial and put your hands behind your back. Or we take it from you and put you on the floor. Your choice."
The crowd pressed closer. Phones were recording. Greg was practically glowing with satisfaction, his arms crossed, his chin tilted upward, his expression screaming, I told you so.
Micah looked at the guards. He looked at the batons. He looked at the crowd. He looked at Greg.
Then he looked past all of them, toward the escalator, because something was happening.
The crowd on the second level had stopped watching the drama below. They were turning, parting, stepping aside. The movement rippled outward from the escalator like a wave, people pressing themselves against counters and display cases to make room.
Someone important was coming up.
The lead guard noticed it too. His baton stayed activated, but his head turned toward the escalator. His partner straightened up. Greg’s smile faltered as the noise level on the third floor dropped, the laughter and chatter dying away as people realized something was happening behind them.
"What the—" Greg started.
"ENOUGH."
The voice hit the third floor like a thunderclap. Not loud, exactly. But heavy. The kind of voice that didn’t need volume because it carried its own weight. It was sharp, commanding, and deeply female.
The crowd split down the middle. People stepped aside so fast they practically tripped over each other, creating a clear path from the escalator to the premium counter.
Two figures walked through the gap.
The first was a woman. She was tall, mid-thirties, with sharp features and dark hair pulled back in a tight, severe bun. She wore a tailored black suit with the Syndicate’s crest embroidered in silver thread on the collar. Her eyes were dark, intelligent, and currently fixed on the scene at the counter with an expression that could have frozen a volcano solid.
She moved with the kind of authority that didn’t need to announce itself. People got out of her way because something in their hindbrain told them to.
Behind her walked an elderly man. He was shorter, maybe mid-sixties, with a white beard trimmed close to his jaw and deep-set eyes that had the kind of tired sharpness that came from decades of seeing through bullshit. He wore heavy robes of deep crimson, the kind of garment that in the trading world was the equivalent of a judge’s gown. A badge on his chest read: MASTER APPRAISER — TIER 1.
The highest rank an appraiser could hold.
The woman stopped three meters from Micah. Her eyes swept the scene in a single, efficient pass. The guards with drawn batons. The masked stranger. Greg behind the counter with his arms crossed and his face already losing color. The crowd of spectators with their phones still recording.
"What exactly is going on at my counter?" she said.
Greg’s mouth opened. No sound came out.
The woman’s gaze settled on him, and he suddenly looked like a man who had just realized he was standing on thin ice over very deep water.
"I asked a question, Mr. Harlow."
Greg swallowed so hard his throat bobbed visibly. He opened his mouth again, closed it, then tried a third time.
"Ma’am, this individual was attempting to—"
"I wasn’t talking to you."
She hadn’t raised her voice. She hadn’t needed to. Greg’s jaw snapped shut so fast his teeth clicked.
She turned to the lead guard.
"Report."
The lead guard deactivated his baton and clipped it back to his belt. He straightened up to full attention.
"General Manager. We received a panic alert from this counter. The junior appraiser on duty reported an individual attempting to pass off suspected counterfeit goods. The individual refused to surrender the item for inspection and became confrontational. We were preparing to detain him when you arrived."
The woman’s eyes moved to Micah.
She studied him for a long, measured moment. The mask. The clothes. The posture. The fact that he was standing perfectly still while two armed guards flanked him and a crowd of strangers recorded his face.
Then she looked at his hand. The one holding the pouch.
"Show me," she said.