The grand rotunda of the Argent Atrium smelled of ambergris, cured tobacco, and old money preserved behind polished glass. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls from sixty-foot vaulted ceilings, refracting light across diamond choker necklaces and tailored midnight-silk tuxedos. Zorion walked through the sea of Novis Prime's elite with an easy, rolling stride, ignoring the startled glances darted at his reinforced nylon work jacket. Veda did not release his arm. Her emerald evening gown brushed against his heavy denim trousers with every step, the texture contrast absurd, almost illicit. "You seem to enjoy this entirely too much," she murmured under the gentle hum of a string quartet, her profile calm, her manicured nails resting snugly against his sleeve. "I aim to provide full client satisfaction, Miss Coralis," Zorion answered smoothly. His earpiece hummed; Ignis was hyperventilating so hard the microphone crackled. Zorion reached up and tapped the unit off. "Don't flatter yourself. You're an abrasive deterrent against a parasite," Veda said, though her thumb brushed the seam of his cuff with deliberate slowness. "Bramwell has been badgering the board for three months trying to merge our automated freight lines. Having you beside me makes him careless. Angry men talk." "And what do I get out of playing bodyguard? Five stars?" Her mouth curved, razor-thin and enticing. "Don't press your luck, driver." Footsteps clicked sharply against the marble behind them. Bramwell caught up, flanked by two board members from the Tarsus Logistics conglomerate. His face had mottled into an ugly brick red beneath his powdered hairline, his tie askew by half an inch. "Veda, darling," Bramwell said, cutting directly in front of them with a sharp, performative laugh. "A delightful jest. Really, top-tier irony. Bringing the help inside to show your egalitarian spirit? The gossip rags will call it avant-garde philanthropy." Several socialites turned, champagne flutes paused halfway to painted lips, sniffing out blood. "He is here by my invitation, Bramwell," Veda replied, her voice dropping into the icy register she reserved for hostile shareholder meetings. "Which is more than I can say for your unannounced arrival." Bramwell dismissed her rebuff with a flick of his signet-ringed hand. His small, wet eyes locked onto Zorion, gleaming with malice. "Well, since you insist on educating the gutter caste in cultural elevation, let's see how our friend handles the hall's centerpiece. Or does his palate only recognize instant broth and exhaust fumes?" He snapped his thumb and forefinger toward a sommelier stationed behind an alabaster pedestal. Upon it rested a velvet-lined silver tray bearing three unlabeled, decanted crystal glasses and an antique bottle wrapped in black silk. "Our host's blind heritage tasting," Bramwell announced, raising his voice so the neighboring circles went dead quiet. "A tradition for high-tier patrons. Fifty thousand credits to charity if you can simply guess the dominant grape blend. But why don't we let our honored guest take a sip? Go on, boy. Pick a glass. Tell the room what high society tastes like." A low ripple of amused chuckles rustled through the gathering. Veda's shoulders squared, her jaw firming. She parted her lips to cut Bramwell down, but Zorion took a single step forward, casually slipping past her guard. "Just the grape?" Zorion asked mildly. He picked up the center crystal goblet, swirled the dark crimson fluid once, and brought the rim beneath his nose without tasting a single drop. Bramwell smirked, leaning forward on his heels. "Don't pretend you know the etiquette. You probably think fermentation is just moldy fruit." "I think this glass holds a 2042 vintage from the south terraced slopes of the Morvath Basin," Zorion said, his tone utterly flat. He set the glass back on the pedestal with a soft, dismissive *clink*. "Except it doesn't." Bramwell scoffed. "Nonsense. That bottle came straight from the private cellar of the Duke of Oakhaven. It's a pure Morvath reserve." "Then someone stole your Duke's money," Zorion said, lifting two knuckles. "First, the sulfur profile is too aggressive; they used industrial synthetic stabilizers to fake aged tannins because the base vintage was harvested barely three seasons ago in the lowlands of Sector Nine. Second, true regional soil carries an unmistakable alkaline residue from the limestone quarries uphill. This has an iron-heavy finish typical of the reclaimed runoff canals near the rail yards." The sommelier went as pale as skimmed milk, suddenly looking anywhere but at the crowd. Bramwell’s smirk twitched. "You're guessing. You're stringing jargon together to bluff your way out of—" "And while we're cataloging fraud," Zorion interrupted, turning halfway to point toward the massive oil painting mounted squarely behind Bramwell's head—the exhibit's celebrated centerpiece, supposedly an authentic masterpiece from the Old Hegemony. "The canvas behind you isn't an authentic Corvo, either." The murmur in the room evaporated instantly. Silence fell like a dropped guillotine. "Are you insane?" Bramwell sputtered, his voice cracking upward an octave. "That piece is insured for forty million credits! My family funded its acquisition!" "Then your family got robbed twice tonight," Zorion said, leaning in until he was inches from Bramwell's flushed nose. "Corvo was left-handed and ground his own lapis lazuli using cold-press linseed. Look at the lower quadrant of the brushwork on the drapery. The stroke angles slant north-by-northwest—a natural right-handed drag. More importantly, the blue pigment under these salon lights shows zero copper luminescence. It's synthetic phthalocyanine. It wasn't manufactured until forty years after Corvo was buried." Zorion picked up a cloth napkin from the tasting tray, wiped a speck of dust from his boot, and dropped the linen neatly onto the pedestal. "The cheap wine I can forgive," Zorion said softly, his voice carrying clearly to every paralyzed billionaire in the circle. "The bad art is an insult to the room. Now, if you'll excuse us, Mr. Tarsus, you're blocking the catering." A collective intake of air hissed across the rotunda. Someone near the back coughed into a silk kerchief; someone else hastily pulled out a datapad to summon the venue's head curator. Bramwell stood frozen, his mouth opening and closing like a landed carp, humiliation burning across his face so fiercely his neck veins stood out like cords. He looked at Veda for support, but found none. Veda was staring at Zorion. A prickle of heat tightened across her collarbones as her ribs locked. For three seconds, she forgot the gala, forgot the Tarsus family, forgot her own corporate warfare. The man beside her had dismantled an elite dynasty's prize collection with the bored precision of an emperor inspecting farm tools—all while wearing a stained windbreaker. *Who the hell are you?* her mind demanded, a sharp thrill cutting through her suspicion. No driver knew the chemical breakdown of regional vineyard loam. No common street runner recognized sixteenth-century painting techniques by stroke angle. He wasn't just a corporate thief; he was dangerous, cultivated, and hiding behind a mockery of poverty. "Let's get some air," Veda whispered, gripping his palm without hesitation. Her skin felt scorching against his knuckles. She guided him away from the stunned onlookers toward the conservatory terrace, where glass walls overlooked the rain-slicked towers of Novis Prime. "You handled that well," Zorion noted, a smug glint lighting his gray eyes. "You humiliated the heir to the largest distribution network on the continent," she replied, stepping close enough that the scent of bergamot on her skin crowded out the gallery air. "He will ruin you for that." "He's welcome to try." "Stay here," Veda commanded softly, her eyes searching his face, looking for a crack in the mask. "I need to fetch my wrap from the cloakroom. Don't touch any more priceless artifacts while I'm gone." Zorion sketched a lazy mock-salute. "I make no promises about the silverware." Veda turned and walked briskly down the marble corridor. The moment she rounded the corner into the private executive lounge, her composure vanished. She whipped out her personal handheld terminal. Her thumb flew across the holographic display, bypassing the standard security layers of the Velocity-X company grid with her master-level executive bypass codes. *Zorion Kest,* she pulled up his encrypted employment profile. If he was a rival agent, his vehicle tracking logs would show his base of operations. She pulled down his historical route maps, peeling back the proxy IPs he used to ping the dispatch towers. Layer after layer peeled away under her custom decryption algorithm until the final root server appeared on the screen. Veda's breath ceased. His device wasn't routing through a residential neighborhood, nor an industrial flophouse. His Velocity-X account had been assigned, licensed, and registered through a ghost dummy corporation—one whose legal ownership traced right to a holding firm wholly owned by the Oculon Syndicate.

Vintage Humiliation