Episode 4: The Team
518 Words
The fourth-floor office smelled of cold coffee and printer toner, a mundane contrast to the supernatural horror of the morning. A whiteboard dominated one wall, scrawled with blue marker: Thief (Unknown) / Collector (Unknown) / How did they bypass security?
“I wrote that at three AM,” Evelyn said, stacking auction catalogs on the table. “Dramatic whiteboard questions make insomnia feel productive.”
“Does it help?”
“Not at all. But it gives Caspian something to disapprove of, so it’s worth it.”
The full team assembled at nine. Seven minutes early, Lyric watched a man in a flannel shirt and cord-hung reading glasses walk in, carrying a thermos the size of a small canister. He sat down, opened his laptop, and began typing without a word.
Caspian arrived promptly at nine fifteen, immaculate and unrushed, laying a folder on the conference table.
“Dylan Mire,” he acknowledged the tech specialist.
Dylan looked up, deadpan. “I pictured an older, grumpier CEO in emails. You look like the kind of guy I install firewalls for.”
“I am that CEO.”
“Right.” Dylan nodded, returning to his screen. “Vault footage is doctored. Flawless editing, but I caught two bleeding frames. Whoever did this helped design the security system.”
A heavy silence fell.
“My wife says I’m too dramatic in meetings,” Dylan added, taking a long sip from his thermos.
Lyric smelled caffeine, not tea. “What’s in the thermos?”
“Double-concentrated energy drink. My wife thinks it’s chamomile. I’m not breaking seven years of lying.”
Evelyn presented her findings next. The pedestal symbol was Old Meridian, translating to Reclaimer—a historical faction that believed bound souls in relics were imprisoned, not preserved. This was not theft for profit. It was theft for ideology.
“They think they’re freeing souls,” Lyric said.
“They think wrong,” Caspian replied.
Dylan’s findings confirmed it. The bone dice had surfaced on an encrypted dark web auction, listed by a user going by Reclaimer, using the exact symbol Evelyn had identified. The account was eighteen months old—either this was the first theft, or a long-planned final move.
Caspian finally laid out the truth—or as much of it as he was willing to give. “The seven vault relics aren’t antiques. They’re soul anchors. Each one binds a spirit. Family ritual, nine hundred years old.”
Lyric didn’t bother with subtlety. “And if all seven get separated?”
The room went quiet. Caspian’s jaw tightened. “Something we’re going to prevent.”
“Bullshit.” Lyric leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You hired me to dig up secrets you’ve buried. Start talking. I’m not billing by the hour for nothing.”
Caspian’s eyes narrowed. “You are billing by the hour. And you’ll learn what I choose to tell you, when I choose to tell you.”
Evelyn hid a smile behind a catalog. Dylan jotted a note in his notebook, underlining it: Thought he’d be the villain. Jury’s out.
- Writer
