I catch Master’s thoughts, those steady, coiled plans, a slice of noir hunger for answers and for leverage. The Bond runs hot through me, and for a wild heartbeat I nearly go all giddy, ears pricking up, tail curling. All I want is to please him, to watch him work, to see him claim this cold little world with nothing but his mind and his voice.

  But there’s more to do than swoon. I drop to a crouch, ears sharp and forward, filtering through the creak of floorboards and the muffled crackle of the fire in the parlour. I listen, really listen, the way only a catgirl can. Feet shuffle in the drawing room, two sets, husband and wife, probably, both deep in some pointless argument about reputation or inheritance. Upstairs, a door closes softly, a servant’s step, light and brisk, trained to be unseen. A heavier tread in the hall, slow, confident, pacing, likely a bodyguard waiting for his employer to finish business below. But deeper, behind the main staircase, I catch it: a murmur of low voices, close together, careful but not secretive, the kind of conversation that needs space and trust, but not shadows.

  Perception Roll, 17 +5, Enhanced Senses +2, Caffeine, +2, Master’s presence +1 = 27

  I track the sound, leading Master through plush hallways, skirting polished sideboards and rich velvet curtains. The inn’s rear is a warren of little rooms, reading nooks, writing desks, a private smoking lounge behind a thick velvet drape. The air grows heavier, richer, layered with tobacco, old cologne, the faint, nervous sweat of men who are used to risking everything for the chance to win just a little more.

  We find the room, big for this house, with a bay window curtained against the night. Five men, all in tailored suits or waistcoats, polished boots, hair slicked back with expensive oil. One’s older, nose like a hawk’s beak, fingers thick with rings. Two others are young, watchful, faces lean and sharp, a third leans on a cane, the fourth taps a heavy signet against a glass of dark liquor. Their conversation pauses as we enter, eyes appraising, predatory, polite, and utterly unconcerned by violence. They know where they are, what power smells like. The Bond flares, and I feel it, danger, opportunity, respect, the rules of the game changing around us.

  I tilt my head, taking in their scents, oil, money, new silk, a whisper of steel hidden in jacket linings. The tension in the room tastes of old coins and new grudges. I let myself be obvious about it, head cocked, nostrils flaring, tail flicking, just a little too wild for these velvet walls.

  Master does something he never does, something that makes my heart pound, he steps forward, every inch the calm, cynical privateer, and plays nice. No steel, no threat, just pure, distilled intent.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  He meets the older man’s gaze, then sweeps the room. “I won’t waste your time. I’m here for business. High-profile business. Steel, if you can believe it, good steel, not the scrap passed off to fools. I’ve got gold.” He holds out a pouch, the clink heavy and deliberate, no need to flash it, just the promise of weight and worth. “If you’ve got the goods, I’m listening. And I’m not here to haggle.”

  Charisma Check, 16, Charisma +1, Tactical Genius +3, Aliza's presence +1 = 21

  The older man’s eyes narrow, his lips curling in something between a smirk and a calculation. The young men tense, ready for trouble, but the one with the cane leans back, a little smile flickering. For a moment, no one speaks. Then the older man nods, once, all authority and risk.

  He gestures to the chair opposite, never dropping his gaze from Master’s face. “Steel, you say? Not a common ask these days. Not for just anyone, either.” His voice is quiet, cultured, but there’s an edge, Maw Mine never lets anyone be truly soft. “Gold’s good, but names are better. Who are you buying for?”

  Master just tilts his head, expression blank as slate. “For myself. You don’t need to know more.”

  A flicker of respect there, a hint of caution. Another of the men—broad-shouldered, sharp eyes, shrugs. “Everything has a price. You want real steel, you need more than coin. But if you’re serious...”

  Master doesn’t let him finish, just tips the pouch, gold coins spilling gently into his palm. “I’m serious.”

  The room shifts,a decision made, a risk taken. They glance at one another, silent agreements passing in the smoke and gold. The man with the cane finally leans forward, voice lower, more confidential. “Then The Swarm can get you what you want.”

  The words land like a dropped glass.

  “Then The Swarm can get you what you want.”

  For half a second the room is suspended in that sentence. Smoke curls. One of the men inhales and forgets to exhale. Gold lies untouched on the table, suddenly irrelevant. Even I feel it before Master moves, the click in his mind, the cold alignment of purpose snapping into place.

  He does not shout.

  He does not threaten.

  He simply acts.

  Steel whispers from the scabbard and becomes certainty.

  Attack Roll, 18, Strength: +2, Steel weapon quality: +5, Tactical Genius: +3 = 28

  The sword slams into the cane man’s shoulder with brutal precision, not a wild swing but a practiced wedge, steel biting deep, pinning muscle and bone to the chair beneath him. The sound is wet and final. The man screams, short, sharp, shocked more than hurt, his cane clattering uselessly to the floor as blood soaks his sleeve and spatters the polished wood.

  Master leans in, close enough for the man to smell him, voice flat, razor calm, vibrating with exhaustion and fury held on a tight leash.

  “So, buddy boy,” he says, slowly, clearly, each word deliberate. “You’ve had me running around this entire city looking for you miscreants.”

  The room erupts into chaos without movement. Chairs scrape. One man half rises, freezes. Another’s hand goes toward his jacket and thinks better of it. Master doesn’t look at them.

  He keeps his eyes on the one pinned to the chair.