The rain had turned to mist by the time Jalen arrived at the discreet entrance of the old Bellamy Auction House. Nestled between two high-end antique stores, it looked more like a forgotten bookshop than a place where rare literary artifacts changed hands for tens of thousands of dollars. But Jalen knew better. In this world, the most valuable stories didn't sit on bestseller lists—they whispered through hidden doors, inked in betrayal and ambition.
Inside, the scent of leather, dust, and expensive cologne filled the air. The main room was dimly lit, lined with vintage bookshelves and velvet-draped display tables. A small, select crowd had gathered—publishers, collectors, and literary dealers who traded words like currency.
Jalen moved with careful purpose, his eyes scanning every face. He didn't expect to see Damon Trent here. Damon was too clever to show his face in public unless he was desperate. But this wasn't about Damon showing up—it was about Damon leaving behind a trail.
On one table, guarded by thick glass, lay a document listed as *"Untitled Manuscript – Unknown Origin."* The opening line, typed in vintage Courier font, struck Jalen like a bullet.
> *"There are stories we write, and stories we steal. But some stories bleed from the truth you can't escape."*
His heart pounded. That was their line—his and Damon's. The very first sentence they'd written together, years ago, in a rented cabin during a thunderstorm. He'd known it by heart. It was unmistakable.
A voice interrupted his daze.
"Interested in that piece, sir?"
The auction curator, an older man with silver-rimmed glasses, approached with a curious gaze.
"Possibly," Jalen said, hiding the storm in his chest. "Do you have any provenance?"
The man shook his head. "Anonymous seller. But it came in through a private literary estate. Rumors say it was part of an unreleased collaboration."
Jalen's jaw clenched.
Anonymous. Of course.
He left his contact info, feigned disinterest, and stepped away. But as he turned, he caught a glimpse of a man in the far corner—hooded, sitting still, his gaze hidden beneath a baseball cap. Something about the tilt of his head… the stillness of his posture…
Jalen approached slowly, heart racing.
But before he could get close, the man stood, glanced back—and slipped through a side exit.
Jalen pushed after him, ignoring the curator's protest.
Outside, the street was quiet. Only a lone cab rolled past, and the hooded figure had vanished.
But on the sidewalk near the exit, something fluttered.
A torn page.
Jalen picked it up with trembling hands. The corner had one phrase scrawled in rushed, messy handwriting:
*"You're not done with the ink. Not yet."*