The portly gavel-caller froze mid-thump. Vanto, his face a sudden mask of apoplectic rage, pointed a trembling finger. “Security! These… these charlatans! Remove them! They’re imposters!” Brio, undeterred, began weaving through the tables, his too-tight teal silk stretching precariously. “Charlatans, you say? That’s rich coming from the proprietor of this esteemed establishment!” He gestured dramatically at the gilded stage, where the ‘Triton’s Embrace’ – a massive bronze sculpture of a swirling sea god – gleamed under a focused spotlight. “Tell me, Baron,” Brio called to the stunned auctioneer, “what’s the current bid on this magnificent piece of… modern art?” Ulric stammered, “Sir, this is a private event. The current bid stands at one hundred and twenty million ducats.” He glanced nervously at Vanto, whose face was now a dangerous shade of puce. “One hundred and twenty million ducats!” Brio whistled, a sound more appropriate for a fish market than a high-society gala. “For a piece of tourist tat you could buy in the Port of Whispers for a handful of seashells! Scandalous!” A ripple of confused murmuring spread through the assembled elite. Whispers of “Who is that?” and “Is this some kind of performance art?” mixed with indignant huffs. A few security guards, burly men in discreet black suits, began to converge on Brio, their hands hovering near concealed sidearms. “Shoot them!” Vanto shrieked, his composure completely gone. “Shoot them down, I said! They’re a threat to public order!” Just as the guards lunged, a low hum vibrated through the vast hall. The dazzling chandeliers, the elegant spotlights illuminating the art, all flickered. Then, with a soft, almost imperceptible whir, the entire room was bathed in an eerie, purplish glow. The sophisticated lighting drones, usually used to highlight specific artworks, had shifted. Ultraviolet glow pulsed from every corner, casting the opulent ballroom in an alien, violet hue. Mina lowered a palm-sized transmitter. “Let’s see how genuine those ‘historical’ silks are under *that*,” she muttered, her voice drowned out by the sudden gasp of the crowd. White linens glowed a blinding azure. Pearly teeth shone with an unnatural brilliance. The vibrant colors of haute couture shifted, revealing subtle stains and repairs previously invisible. The illusion of perfection fractured. Brio, meanwhile, had reached the stage, sidestepping a bewildered guard with the grace of a seasoned smuggler. He stood before the ‘Triton’s Embrace’, his face illuminated by the violet wash, a broad grin plastered across it. “Ah, behold!” he announced, holding up his flute. “The ‘Triton’s Embrace’! Truly a marvel of… *contemporary* manufacturing.” He leaned in, sniffing the bronze god’s shoulder. “Yes, lovely aging. A fine, chemical lacquer.” Without another word, Brio upended his champagne flute. The clear, corrosive solvent splashed across the sculpture’s chest, running down the god’s sculpted abs. A gasp rose from the crowd, a mix of horror and morbid fascination. The bronze, under the purple beam, began to fizz and darken, then slough off. Not the metal itself, but the artificial layer of green and verdigris that gave it the illusion of centuries. The crust melted away, revealing a raw, machine-milled surface beneath. And then, as the last vestiges of the fabricated age dripped onto the stage floor, a bright, neon green stamp blazed forth under the blacklight, stamped clearly across the god's flank. It pulsed: ‘MADE IN TAIWAN’. A collective roar of outrage erupted. The ultraviolet glare exposed not just the glowing stamp, but the pale, slack-jawed faces of the city’s elite. The auction had dissolved into pandemonium. But the chaos was only beginning. At that precise moment, every large screen in the ballroom, which had previously displayed the elegant Cazar crest and the escalating bids, flickered. Then, in stark, undeniable text, a detailed ledger appeared. Rows of figures, dates, and names. Purchase orders for ‘antique’ artworks that matched the catalogue. Corresponding payouts to shell corporations. And at the bottom, a clear summary: a network of fraudulent transactions, all tied to Vanto Cazar, funneling vast sums to the ‘Scylla Syndicate’ and its ‘Brineheart’ subsidiary. Talia, calm and resolute amidst the uproar, watched from a discreet distance as the names of prominent families — the Alvinsons, the Montagnes, the Von Hessels — flashed across the screens, their own art purchases directly linked to Vanto’s crooked dealings. They hadn’t just bought fakes; they had, unknowingly, bankrolled the very cartels that preyed on the coast. The elegant masks of the elite shattered. Faces twisted in fury, humiliation, and terror. Their reputations, their fortunes, their very status, were collapsing in real-time. Vanto, now a ghost of his former arrogant self, stared at the screens, his mouth agape. The violet lamps washed him in a cadaverous pallor. His criminal enterprise, his forged legacy, his entire desperate gamble, was exposed. He looked around wildly, searching for an escape, for a scapegoat. From the back of the room, a hulking figure, who had been sitting quietly with a pair of surprisingly delicate binoculars, slowly rose. He was dressed in a pristine, if somewhat ill-fitting, midnight-blue suit, but there was no mistaking the cold, predatory gleam in his eyes. The brute bore the coastal brand of the Brineheart cartel across his wrist, his teeth bared in fury. His entire operation, his vast network of art laundering, was gone. Bankrupted. Exposed. And it was all because of the sniveling fool on the stage. With a slow, deliberate movement, Kaelan Jett reached inside his jacket. When his hand reappeared, it held a gleaming, silenced pistol. He sighted straight toward Vanto.

The Blacklight Verdict