The music dimmed.
A hush fell across the grand hall as the stage lights brightened, not blinding, but deliberate. From the edge of shadow stepped a figure whose presence did not demand attention loudly, yet commanded it entirely.
He seemed carved from contrast.
Half his face lay concealed beneath angled beams of gold light, the other half drifting in shadow. Round, reflective spectacles caught the chandelier glow and turned it into mirrored pools, hiding his eyes behind cold brilliance. A precisely trimmed goatee framed his chin, lending him a rugged elegance that clashed subtly with the simplicity of his attire.
A dark shirt hugged his frame beneath a voluminous earth-toned jacket that fell loosely from his shoulders. He looked less like a tycoon and more like a wandering academic who had accidentally inherited an empire.
Yet when he stood at the center of the stage, the air shifted.
Comfortable in the margins, yet master of the center.
"Monsieur Ian, the founder, the architect and major share owner of AXILE" the male speaker introduce excitingly as Ian appear on stage.
He adjusted his spectacles lightly, scanning the room through lenses that revealed nothing.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice smooth and resonant, carrying effortlessly through the hall. "Old friends… new partners… and those still deciding which they are."
Soft laughter rippled across the tables.
"Tonight," Ian continued, "we honor tradition."
A subtle nod from Raphael below the stage confirmed everything was proceeding as planned.
"Our merchandise," Ian said carefully, "will be presented in four divisions."
Murmurs stirred on the announcement since it wasn't expected.
"In each division," he went on, "you will bid on a prototype. You will test it, evaluate it." His lips curved slightly. "Only after satisfaction… will the authentic series be delivered to your respective domains and as you know you may as well get your desired product after bidding after the gathering."he paused
"But we won't be held responsible for what happens after that giving the importance" he laughed.
He spread his hands lightly.
"Trust, after all, is best built on demonstration."
A few knowing chuckles sounded.
Ian leaned closer to the microphone, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
"And besides… we are in France." He shrugged faintly. "We always test the wine before buying the vineyard."
The French guests laughed openly at that. Even some of the English delegates allowed themselves thin smiles.
From the left side of the stage, attendants rolled in a heavy iron cart.
Upon it sat four sealed black boxes matte, reinforced, each marked with a small silver insignia. They were not large, but their presence drew more attention than any jewel could have.
The wheels scraped softly against the polished floor as they were positioned under the lights.
Whispers began.
Alois leaned toward Stephenson, wiping his brow with a silk handkerchief. "I hear the first division changes entire city grids."
Stephenson's heavy fingers tapped the table thoughtfully. "If the rumors are true… Vince Duchy will not leave empty-handed."
Across another table, Denise, the retired golf professional turned underworld organizer, smirked faintly. "Prototype or not… if it works once, that's enough."
From the southern section, Mahito observed in silence, hands folded. The Egyptian delegates spoke quietly among themselves in Arabic, their expressions measured.
Near the back of the hall, Oscar moved.
He carried a tray now, head slightly lowered, posture loose and well blend. He drifted between clusters of guests like oil across water—smooth, unnoticed.
Shadow Silence pulsed faintly around him, dulling the subtle clink of glasses and muffling the brush of fabric when needed.
He passed one table.
Then another.
And then—
He brushed past Yunli.
For the briefest second, their shoulders aligned.
From beneath the folded napkin on his tray, Oscar's fingers released a slim black recording pen.
It slipped seamlessly into Yunli's waiting hand beneath the tray she carried.
All happens without making eye contact or uttering a word to each other.
Only the quiet understanding of operatives in motion.
Yunli adjusted her grip on the champagne bottle, sliding the pen into her sleeve without breaking rhythm as she poured a glass for one of the Japanese delegates.
On stage, Ian rested his hand atop the first black box.
"Shall we begin," he asked softly, "with Division One?"
The hall leaned forward as one.
And somewhere within the glittering spectacle
Oscar had just slipped away from Yunli's side when fate or miscalculation intervened.
He turned a corner near the western pillar, tray balanced in one hand, mind already recalculating the best angle to plant a miniature camera beneath the stage rail
And walked straight into a solid wall of muscle.
The tray tilted.
Glasses trembled.
A hand shot out and steadied it before a single drop spilled.
Oscar Frozen in shock.
Klaus.
Up close, Klaus was now even more imposing than rumor suggested. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a sharply tailored black suit that did nothing to soften the cold geometry of his presence. His gaze lowered slowly to the "delivery boy."
For a brief second, Oscar felt it—that spike of unknown fear. Not because Klaus moved aggressively.
But because he didn't.
There wasn't anger in his expression nor a visible suspicion.
Only distance a cold and estranged, detached look.
"You," Klaus said evenly, releasing the tray. "Staff do not circulate near the primary tables."
Oscar bowed slightly, adopting a nervous tone. "S-sorry, sir. I was told to refill..."
"You were told wrong." Klaus' voice was calm, but it cut cleanly. "Stay along the outer perimeter. Deliver as needed and leave."
He shut him off before he could come up with an excuse further confirming it that the Klaus in front of him was an entirely different being from who he knew in the past.
Oscar nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."
As he stepped back, he felt eyes on him.
Marielle stood several meters away, a glass of champagne resting lazily in her hand. She had witnessed the entire exchange.
A slow smirk curved her lips.
"How interesting" She tilted her head slightly, studying Oscar as one might examine a stray cat that wandered too close to a private garden.
"Boy," she called lightly.
Oscar stopped.
"You heard him," Marielle said, her voice smooth as silk. "Return to your truck. We don't need extra hands hovering."
The dismissal was deliberate.
Oscar swallowed the irritation rising in his throat. The miniature camera still tucked inside his sleeve suddenly felt useless.
Planting devices. Running additional wires. Getting closer to the stage.
All of it—gone.
"Y-yes, ma'am," he replied meekly.
He turned and walked away without haste, but his jaw tightened beneath the innocent facade.
Outside, the night air felt heavier.
Halden was already leaning against the delivery van, cigarette glowing faintly in the dark.
"That was quicker than expected," Halden muttered as Oscar approached.
"Change of instructions," Oscar replied quietly.
Halden studied his face for a moment, then flicked the cigarette aside. "Get in."
The engine roared softly to life, and the van rolled away from AXILE's illuminated compound.
Oscar inserted the ear plug again as they passed the outer gates.
"Yunli," he murmured. "Plans compromised. Klaus almost buried me cold."
There was a brief pause.
"Understood," Yunli responded calmly. "Proceed to fallback I'll try to exit as soon as chance arises."
The van disappeared down the coastal road, heading back toward the quiet streets where the bakery lights still glowed faintly in the distance.
Meanwhile, back at the bakery, the atmosphere was far lighter.
Flour still dusted parts of the counter. The ovens radiated a lingering warmth. The scent of caramelized sugar clung to the air.
Clara leaned against a stainless-steel table, her posture relaxed, almost languid.
She had changed into a fitted blouse after the deliveries were sent, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest effort without sacrificing allure.
Vincent stood across from her, pretending to review notes for his so-called "student project."
Clara smiled—a slow, playful smile that held more curiosity than innocence.
"So," she said lightly, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers, "why France?"
Vincent looked up, feigning mild confusion. "Hmm?"
"You said your project required cultural immersion," Clara continued, stepping a little closer. "But there are many places in Europe. Why here?"
Her tone was teasing, but her eyes were observant.
Vincent offered a polite smile. "France has… layered history. Art, politics, social shifts. It seemed academically rich."
Clara laughed softly. "Academically rich? That's the most boring answer I've heard all week."
She circled around him slightly, resting her hip against the counter near his elbow.
"Most young men pick France for romance," she said. "Or adventure."
Her gaze lingered on him a second too long.
Vincent remained composed, though his senses were alert. Clara's playful demeanor felt natural but in their line of work, nothing was dismissed easily.
"And what do you think I came for?" he asked lightly.
Clara leaned closer, lowering her voice just a fraction.
"I think," she said, smiling like a cat with a secret, "you're not just here for bread."
The oven timer clicked softly in the background.
Outside, Halden's van approached the curb.
And inside AXILE's grand hall, Ian's hand began lifting the lid of the first black box...