The private lounge was dimly lit. Thick velvet curtains muffled the restaurant's distant hum. A decanter of aged whiskey occupied the table's center. Its amber hue shone in the chandelier's light. The atmosphere was filled with the scent of leather, cigar smoke, and rain from the city outside.

  Dante leaned back in his chair, tossing a thick stack of papers onto the table. The pages fanned out, glossy prints of security footage showing a familiar figure in the grainy glow of streetlights.

  "She knows how to disappear," he said, his voice as steady as ever. "But she has an informant. Matt Olsen."

  He flipped one of the papers forward. A still frame showed Christina, her hood pulled low, pressing a folder into a man’s hands. Another image caught his profile—Matt Olsen, half-hidden in the alley’s shadows.

  Conan exhaled through his nose, picking up a print and studying it with mild amusement. "My cats tracked her to the shipyard," he said. "She stowed away on a freighter. Owned by the Orpheus Circle." His eyes lifted from the photo, their usual detached amusement fading. "I don’t know where it’s heading."

  Clavius tapped a single finger against the table. "Then we find out," he said. "Dante. You need to get onto that ship and take whatever files they have. Manifest, logs, anything."

  Dante rolled his shoulders and exhaled. "That’s not something I can do remotely. I need direct access to their system."

  Alistair, who had been silent until now, leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. The dim light caught the edge of his black leather eyepatch. "Then I’ll get you there," he said. "We’ll hit the shipyard together, get you inside, and get it done."

  Clavius nodded once. "Conan and I will handle Matt Olsen. If she trusted him enough to hand over a file, he knows more than he’s letting on."

  Dante smirked slightly, running a hand through his dark hair. "Fine," he said. "Let’s get to work."

  Matt Olsen sprawled on his worn-out couch. One arm rested on the backrest, the other on his stomach. His lanky frame slouched with ease. His legs stretched out, ankles crossed. His loose cargo pants hung comfortably, oversized pockets weighed down with odds and ends. His sleeveless blue vest, worn over a faded gray long-sleeve shirt, showed years of wear, its edges frayed from casual neglect.

  His light brown hair fell in uneven strands over his forehead, brushing against the sharp angles of his face. A thin beard shadowed his jawline, giving him a scruffy look. His pale blue eyes, half-lidded with disinterest, flicked between the television and the battered guitar propped against the wall.

  The lamp threw long shadows across the messy apartment. The coffee table was littered with takeout containers and crumpled papers, signifying his lack of concern about cleanliness. The air was thick with the scent of old books and stale cigarettes, mixed with the distant hum of the city outside the window.

  Matt exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. Another long night, another job he wasn’t sure he should’ve taken.

  The door exploded inward with a thunderous crack, splinters flying as Clavius stepped through the ruined frame.

  "What the—?!"

  Matt’s voice shot up several octaves, a panicked, undignified shriek as his legs kicked wildly against the couch. Papers scattered. A half-eaten bag of chips tumbled to the floor.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Before he could scramble away, a massive shadow lunged.

  Alice, the lioness, slammed him back onto the cushions, her enormous paws pinning his chest. Her golden eyes burned into his, hot breath fanning against his face. A deep, guttural growl rumbled through her throat, vibrating straight into his ribs.

  "Oh god—oh god, oh god—" Matt’s hands shot up in surrender. "I didn’t do anything, I swear! I don’t even know why you’re here!"

  Clavius loomed over him, silent, unblinking. The weight of his gaze pressed harder than the lion did.

  Conan strolled in, hands in his pockets, surveying the mess of an apartment with a distasteful curl of his lip. He clicked his tongue and crouched beside the couch, resting his chin on one hand.

  "Alice," he murmured, voice smooth as silk, "don’t eat him… if he cooperates."

  Alice’s growl didn’t stop. Her jaws parted, teeth flashing inches from Matt’s face.

  "I’LL TALK, I’LL TALK!" he squeaked, nodding frantically. "Just—just call off the murder cat!"

  Matt’s breath came in short, ragged gasps as Alice’s weight pressed him onto the couch. His fingers twitched, gripping at nothing, eyes darting between Clavius and Conan.

  "She was looking for something," he blurted, voice shaking. "Something big. I don’t know what, I swear, but it had to do with her old man’s empire."

  Clavius didn’t react. His stare remained cold, patient, as if waiting for Matt to hang himself with his own words.

  "She came to me a few times," Matt continued, his throat bobbing with a nervous swallow. "Asking about old connections, old deals—stuff tied to Rofford’s legacy. Shipping routes, shell companies, and people who used to be on the payroll. She said something wasn’t adding up."

  Conan leaned in, resting his elbow on the armrest, fingers drumming against his cheek. Alice’s growl rumbled lower, a vibrating threat that had Matt sweating through his shirt.

  "And?" Clavius finally spoke.

  Matt flinched at the weight of that single word.

  "And she was spooked," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "More than usual. She always knew how to cover her tracks, but this time? She was running. Fast. She stopped asking me for help a week ago. After that… nothing."

  Clavius straightened. The air in the room shifted, heavy with unspoken understanding.

  Christina wasn’t just looking into her father’s empire.

  She had found something. And now, she was running for her life.

  Conan flipped open the file, his golden eyes scanning the pages with the slow, deliberate ease of a predator circling its prey. The room felt smaller, the air thick with the lingering growl of Alice, who hadn’t moved from atop Matt’s chest. The man beneath her trembled, his fingers twitching against the couch cushions, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

  "You’re lying," Conan said, his voice smooth but absolute.

  Matt flinched. His lips parted in a desperate protest, but Conan didn’t look at him—his attention stayed on the papers in his hands. The pages were marked with familiar insignias, coded invoices, and manifests that stretched across continents. The deeper he read, the more his brow furrowed.

  Something was wrong.

  He had seen smuggling reports before, the telltale language of underground trade. But this? The destinations didn’t make sense. The shipments weren’t listed as cargo but as subjects. No names, no specifics—only numbers. Cold, clinical. Too precise.

  His fingers tightened on the edge of the file.

  "You want to try again?" he asked, finally lifting his gaze to Matt.

  Matt licked his lips, his eyes darting between the lion and Conan.

  "Okay, okay!" he blurted. "She said something about the shipyard. That there was a route—one her father used—but it wasn't just moving weapons, or drugs, or people. It was worse."

  Conan leaned forward, the file tapping against his knee. "Define worse."

  Matt swallowed hard. "I don’t know, man. She wouldn't say. Just that if she was right, if this was what she thought it was... she’d have a target on her back bigger than her old man ever did."

  Conan exhaled slowly, his fingers tracing the cryptic numbers on the page.

  Not human trafficking.

  Something worse.