The exhilaration from the gala's small victory had evaporated the moment Tarnis and Savia stepped back into the quiet gloom of the Annex. The air smelled of aged silk and cedar dust. Savia moved through the main floor, her gaze sweeping over the garment forms, their elegant drapes now seeming to hold a fragile defiance. Tarnis, his movements economical, began methodically securing the industrial-grade door locks, the heavy thunks echoing in the silence. He ran a palm over the polished brass of a massive cutting table, feeling the vibrations of the city thrumming deep beneath the foundations. “He won’t wait,” Savia murmured, not looking at Tarnis but at a mannequin displaying a deep crimson evening wrap. “Vance hates being upstaged. More than that, he hates being confused.” Tarnis’s achromatopsia meant the crimson was only a shade of grey to him, but he understood the sentiment. Vance’s entire persona was built on absolute certainty, absolute control. The Monolith’s unexpected re-emergence, signaled by a single dress, had shattered that. “He’ll send an enforcement team,” Tarnis confirmed, his voice low. “His usual method.” They worked in companionable silence, securing the boutique. Savia checked the reinforced window grates; Tarnis ensured the attic access was bolted. Just as Tarnis was checking the main power conduits, a muffled thud vibrated through the floorboards above, followed by a faint scrape. Savia reached for the carbon-steel cutting blades on the counter. Tarnis paused, his head cocked slightly, listening. He heard the distinct, rhythmic creak of the old service elevator, a sound that meant only one thing: forced entry through the rarely used freight shaft that extended from the Greskova Conglomerate’s adjacent storage facility. Vance was funneling them directly through shared industrial conduits to bypass the street perimeter. “Upstairs,” Tarnis whispered, his eyes – sightless to color, but acutely sensitive to movement in the dim light – scanning the shadowed ceiling. “Third floor archival. They’ll target the sketches first, then the inventory.” They moved with practiced quiet, Savia’s footsteps light on the ancient floorboards, Tarnis a shadow beside her. On the third level, the air was thick with the scent of aged fabric and moth preventative. Three operatives in Greskova line uniform fanned across the room, torch beams cutting through the gloom. One was attempting to force open a locked flat-file cabinet, grunting with effort. Another was heading directly for the neatly stacked, canvas-bound sketchbooks on a central worktable. Tarnis moved first. He knew this floor better than his own memory, the exact weight and stability of every towering archival rack. The men were clumsy, their movements echoing loudly in the enclosed space. As the second reached for Savia’s sketches, Tarnis flicked a tension cable anchored between two high racks. The steel frames, weighed down with bolts of undyed woolen twill, tilted with a drawn-out groan. The intruder looked up an instant before forty yards of pressed weave crashed across his knees, knocking him flat. The man at the file cabinet spun round. Tarnis released a ceiling pulley cord. A counterweighted garment rack packed with steel-beaded gowns swept down along its track, slamming into the man's ribs and driving him back into a column of millinery cartons, which collapsed over him in a burst of crushed card and tulle. The third operative remained on his feet. He saw Tarnis now, a slender figure retreating into the deeper shadows of the shelving. A flicker of recognition, or perhaps just primal rage, crossed his face. He lunged, shouting, “You! The courier!” At that precise moment, a tripped floor sensor on the second story, dislodged by the struggling, ensnared thugs, shrieked to life. The Annex's commercial horns engaged with an ear-splitting howl, accompanied by overhead strobes that flickered in vicious pulses of pure white. Tarnis dropped to his knees, palms pressed hard against his temples as vertigo and glare tore through his visual field. The third operative saw him drop and surged past the fallen wool. Before his boot could connect, Savia stepped into the beam, the pointed tips of her cutting blades leveled an inch below his throat. “Hold,” Savia said, her voice piercing the horn. “Breaking into a registered family annex constitutes industrial burglary and trespass. Every feed from these overhead rafters transmits to off-site storage. Your squad is pinned. You are entirely alone.” The thug hesitated, his foot hovering. His gaze shifted from the steel points to her eyes. “You think you're stopping this?” he spat. “I will file sanctions with the oversight board,” Savia said without dropping her guard. “I will cite Vance for commercial sabotage and cite your contract badges in the complaint. He will drop your retaining fees by morning to save his licensing status. If you touch him—” she motioned toward Tarnis “—I invoke an emergency inspection against Vance's flagship floor. Weigh your salary against that.” The man’s face went slack. He knew the name ‘Ostran-Varo Collective’. He knew Vance severed liabilities without second thought. Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered his foot. He looked at Tarnis one last time, a frustrated snarl twisting his features, then turned and stomped toward the service elevator, abandoning his trapped comrades. The alarms continued to blare for another ten excruciating minutes until the automated system finally recognized the lack of further intrusion and powered down. The silence that followed was dense, almost painful. Tarnis slowly uncurled, his body still trembling, but the searing white noise had begun to recede. Savia was immediately beside him, her hand warm and grounding on his arm. Police sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. Once the intruders dragged themselves clear and the bay doors sealed, Savia and Tarnis inspected the wreckage. The fallen racks and torn cartons littered the floor, but the pattern folios remained intact. As Savia helped Tarnis re-stack a precarious pile of silks, her foot nudged something on the dusty floor. It was an enterprise tablet, dark slate casing stamped with the Greskova insignia. It must have fallen from the lead thug’s pocket. Savia activated it, her brow furrowing. A single, urgent memo was open on the screen, addressed from Vance Greskova to the Ostran-Varo Syndicate’s ‘Inspection & Accreditation’ division. The text was brief, brutal: *“Due to unforeseen operational disruptions at the Greskova Vintage Annex, I am requesting the final Syndicate inspection for Ms. Savia Greskova’s collection be moved forward to the close of business this coming Friday. Expediency is paramount for optimal market positioning.”* It was Monday night. Vance was not granting them thirty days; he was forcing the trial in four.

The Threadbare Raid