The klaxon’s pulsing shriek vibrated through Brio’s teeth. Vanto’s voice, amplified to scour the entire city, had done its work. Five million Solara’s Tears. That was a serious sum. Enough to make every desperate soul in San Vespera turn predator. Brio’s usual cheer had a brittle edge to it. He turned to Talia, his gaze uncharacteristically sharp, lacking its usual playful glint. “They’ll be swarming the grounds within minutes. Vanto’s made me a prize fish in a shark tank.” He touched the heavy biometric ring on his finger, still pulsing faintly from the vault scan. “This just got a lot less fun.” Talia straightened, smoothing her ruined silk gown with sharp, calculated gestures. “The Cazar compound has layers of security. It will take them time to penetrate the inner perimeter, even with five million on your head. Our priority is getting off the grounds. Do you have an actual route beyond tasting more glazes?” Brio didn’t offer a laugh. “Vanto likes his toys. The Cazar garages are packed with them. We need something fast, and more importantly, analog. Something the Brinehearts can’t hack from their speedboats.” He gestured towards the vault’s entrance, which had automatically sealed after their entry. “This way.” They moved quickly through the labyrinthine tunnels connecting the vault to the main house. The klaxon was a constant, maddening drumbeat. Brio led them down a freight corridor, bypassing two estate guards who stared down at the price on their comms screens, frozen in place. He picked a lock on a heavy steel door, revealing a cavernous, climate-controlled chamber. Row upon row of gleaming, pristine vehicles sat under low-hanging lamps. Most were sleek battery-powered models, but nestled in a dark bay sat a relic: a petrol-fueled Aevos V-Series roadster from the early 2000s, its midnight-blue enamel untouched by dust. “Perfect,” Brio murmured, admiring the low-slung chassis. “Vanto probably thinks it’s an eyesore, too loud, too unrefined.” He popped the driver’s side door open. “Hop in, heiress. Time to see what a real escape looks like.” As Brio roared the Aevos to life, its engine a guttural growl that drowned out the klaxon, Talia braced herself. The car shot out of the garage, smashing through a flimsy gate meant for garden vehicles. Headlights flashed in the distance. They were already being hunted. The coastal highway, usually a shimmering ribbon of light, was now a gauntlet. Patrol cruisers, their strobes painting the night in urgent blues and reds, peeled off from various intersections. Civilian vehicles, likely alerted by Vanto’s broadcast, swerved nervously away from the pursuing sirens. Brio, however, seemed to relish the chaos. A wide, almost deranged grin spread across his face as he wrestled the vintage beast through traffic. The roar of the engine was punctuated by his whoops of delight. “This old girl has some kick!” he shouted over the wind, executing a violent bootleg turn that sent a police cruiser spinning into a lamppost. Glass exploded. “Vanto probably never even took her out of second gear!” Talia clutched the dashboard. Her usual composed demeanor was fractured. “You’re enjoying this! We have half the underworld gunning for us, and you’re driving like a maniac!” “Exactly!” Brio laughed, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with a delivery truck. “They’re not expecting a lunatic! They’re expecting some terrified rich kid!” He swerved hard, sending the Aevos onto a deserted stretch of service road that ran parallel to the highway. “And terrified rich kids don’t know how to outrun a pack of cartel hounds!” Ahead, the colossal structure of the Grand Auction House loomed, its illuminated glass façade reflecting the city’s frantic energy. Brio didn’t slow down. Instead, he floored it, the Aevos surging forward like a bullet. “Hold on!” he yelled, and Talia had barely a moment to draw a sharp breath before they slammed through a loading dock gate with a deafening screech of tearing metal. The car skidded to a halt inside a dimly lit receiving bay, dust motes dancing in the faint light filtering from above. “The auction is tomorrow, but the *real* show happens underneath,” Brio said, his earlier mirth replaced by a cool, strategic look. He pointed to a recessed service tunnel. “The catacombs. Where the genuine, unlisted pieces are secretly appraised and held before the public ever sees them.” They scrambled out of the damaged Aevos, the engine ticking as it cooled. The air in the tunnel was thick with the scent of aged paper and stone. As they descended, the sounds of the city faded, replaced by an eerie silence. The tunnel opened into a vast, subterranean network of chambers, some carved roughly from rock, others lined with meticulously constructed stone shelves. Arcane glyphs glowed faintly on some walls, markers for various appraisal zones. It was a warren designed to protect priceless secrets. “They won’t follow us in here quickly,” Talia whispered, her voice echoing in the gloom. “It’s too disorienting.” “Maybe,” Brio conceded, scanning the stone archways. His fingers found the notched bone hilt of his oyster knife. “The coastal syndicates know these subterranean drains inside out. They ran contraband through them decades before the museum existed.” Just as he finished speaking, the air grew heavy. From the deeper shadows of an adjoining passage, three figures emerged. Their faces were obscured by dark, hooded cloaks, but the glint of steel in their hands – wickedly curved shivs and an ornate, silenced pistol – left no doubt. These were no opportunistic street runners. These were syndicate muscle, silent and disciplined. “Well, well,” a gravelly voice slithered from the lead figure. “Looks like the Cazar heir is just a scared little fish out of water.” Brio’s cheerful facade cracked completely. The casual amusement vanished, replaced by a chilling stillness. These were the ones who had Mina in their crosshairs. His hand tightened on his knife. He took a half-step in front of Talia. Suddenly, a creak sounded from above. A rectangular section of the ceiling, a disused ventilation shaft cover, swung inward. And then, with a soft thud, a figure dropped from the opening, landing lightly between Brio and the cartel assassins. She was smaller than Brio, but her stance was wide, confident. Her dark hair was pulled back, streaked with grease, and she wore a pair of heavy work overalls. In her hands, held with familiar ease, was a customized, high-powered pneumatic nail-gun, its air tank hissing faintly. Its barrel, usually for carpentry, was clearly modified for a far more lethal purpose. Her dark eyes, identical in tilt to Brio’s, leveled dead-center on the ambushers. “Touch my idiot brother, and you’ll find out what real pain feels like.”

Catacombs and Nail-Guns