The docks at Allianz Port were alive again after the UN summit.

  Vendors hawked their wares, travelers bustled to and fro—

  and among them walked Teaching Assistant Thomasin Mayfield, clutching her satchel close, eyes fixed on the small card in her hand.

  The card bore a name: Goodison Park Holding.

  Dan Burn had asked her—pleaded, really—to seek out this man.

  So here she was.

  When Thomasin reached the pier, she froze. Before her loomed a white luxury cruise ship, its hull painted with elegant designs. A floating bus, but for the wealthy.

  The placard read: Departure to Zentinel — 30 minutes.

  Heart hammering, she stepped toward the towering ticket inspector. The man was built like a gorilla. She, by comparison, felt like a hamster inching into his cage.

  “E-excuse me…”

  “What is it, little one?”

  “I… um… I’m looking for—”

  She slid the card forward timidly.

  The man’s eyes flicked down. At the name Goodison Park Holding, his memory supplied what his instincts already knew: a VIP guest.

  “Oi!”

  He waved. A steward jogged over from the ship.

  “Guest for Suite K1.”

  A nod.

  “Right this way, ma’am.”

  The chain came off immediately.

  Thomasin swallowed hard, legs trembling as she followed the steward aboard. He led her up to the second deck, straight to the golden door of a VIP cabin, and knocked.

  “Sir Randy, your guest has arrived.”

  Her palms grew slick with sweat.

  The door opened. She stepped inside—

  and froze.

  Sitting within was a tall man in a sharp black business suit, skin pale, eyes the clear blue of glacier water. Even seated, he towered above her by what felt like whole spans of height.

  But his face—his youth. He looked barely older than her. Either that, or a billionaire’s playboy son with immaculate grooming.

  Her heart thundered, ears ringing. She had never met anyone this striking before.

  Th-this is… the man Dan knows?!

  “So you’ve come. You must be the one Dan said was researching evolution?”

  “Y-yes…”

  She hugged her bag tight.

  The man’s gaze swept her top to toe. Then, suddenly—he smiled. A devastating grin that lit his whole face. He rose and motioned for her to sit.

  “An honor, Lady Thomasin. I am Randy Moss.”

  He offered his hand. She took it, and nearly jolted—

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  his hand was soft. Too soft.

  Her chest hammered like a war drum.

  From behind him, a poised woman in glasses emerged with a tray of tea.

  Thomasin flinched.

  “This is my secretary, Gala.”

  The woman inclined her head. Thomasin nodded faintly in return.

  “Since the ship departs soon, Miss Thomasin…”

  “H-hm?”

  “How much money do you need?”

  “…Excuse me?”

  “How much funding for your research?”

  Her breath caught.

  Wha—straight to the point?!

  “I’ve already received approval from Mathema’s government,” Randy said with a casual clasp of hands.

  Gala stepped forward, producing official paperwork, stamped and sealed. All genuine.

  Thomasin’s jaw slackened.

  “H-how did you—? Who are you really?”

  He perched on the table, one leg up, leaned forward, and said in a velvet tone:

  “I’m just a man with a goal. A goal only you can achieve for me. So… how much do you want? I’ll give you as much as you desire… little scholar.”

  Her face burned crimson. All her life, books had been her only company—she had never once had a boyfriend. Now, a man like this leaned so close she could feel his breath. Her body buzzed like an overcharged battery.

  “W-wait! Isn’t this too sudden?! Who are you really, and what do you want from our department?!”

  “Ah… it seems our time is almost up.”

  (Ship horn blared.)

  She whipped her head toward the sound.

  He adjusted his suit as he rose. As his sleeve fell back, she glimpsed it—

  a tattoo of a dragon etched across his arm.

  “Miss Thomasin, the ship is departing.”

  He snapped his fingers.

  “Here. Take this checkbook. Write in whatever amount you wish.”

  “What?!”

  Gala slipped a brown envelope into her hands.

  “For the withdrawals, you may consult Dan first if you wish, Miss Thomasin,” she said smoothly.

  And just like that—the ship sounded again, and Thomasin found herself back at the pier, blinking in confusion.

  “…Huh?”

  She looked down. Opened the envelope.

  Her knees nearly gave way.

  Inside lay stacks of certified checks, bearing the seal of Aetheris’s central bank, every one signed by Randy Moss himself—ready for instant withdrawal. There were enough checks to burn as firewood and still not run out.

  “W-what the—?!?!”

  Artheris Academy.

  Dan washed test tubes after natural science lab, most classmates already gone. Nora sat nearby, jotting end-of-class notes.

  Suddenly—

  Thud thud thud thud!

  “Dan!!!”

  Thomasin stumbled in, gasping, clinging to the doorframe, her knees shaking.

  “Dan!! Where’s Dan?!”

  Nora glanced toward the sink. Dan turned.

  “…Senior Thomasin?”

  …

  …

  “What is this?! No—who the hell did you send me to meet, Dan Burn?!”

  She slammed the brown envelope down. Checks spilled out, too many for the glue to hold.

  Nora and Dan exchanged a look. Dan picked up one, scanning it.

  “So you met him. It went well?”

  “He barely said a word—then handed me this and left! I don’t even know him! How can someone give this to a stranger?! I can’t use this! I won’t!”

  Nora and Dan looked at each other again.

  Clearly, the responsibility was being tossed back and forth.

  “Dan…” Thomasin swallowed. “That man… is he your relative?”

  “N-no, just an acquaintance.”

  Her eyes said it all: she didn’t buy it.

  “…Is he even legal?”

  “Why would you say that?!”

  Nora (quietly, to herself): Actually, he’s above the law.

  “Dan… don’t lie. I can tell. This money—it’s yours somehow, isn’t it?”

  A flash of memory—the dragon tattoo. The blue-eyed man. Yakuza. In Zentinel, tattoos meant underworld power.

  Young. Wealthy. Tattoed. Ruthless. It could only mean one thing to Thomasin.

  Maybe Dan was one of them. A hidden heir. A young master.

  Dan froze. His eyes darted toward Nora for help.

  Thomasin’s voice softened—but grew more earnest.

  “Dan… you won’t gain anything from us. If it’s profit you seek… take your money elsewhere. Please.”

  Her tone wasn’t just cautious. It was haunted—like someone with scars of her own when it came to men like him.

  (Everton… you bastard…)

  “Senior Thomasin, I’m not in a gang.”

  “No need to hide it…”

  “I’m really not! If I were, Princess Nora wouldn’t associate with me, right? Think about it.”

  True enough.

  Dan gathered the checks, holding them out again.

  “This isn’t about profit. Money never mattered. Not to me.”

  “Then… what do you want?”

  “I told you before. I just want to know… where we come from.”

  “And if you get the answer… what then?”

  Dan fell silent.

  …If he learned the truth—what then?

  “…Then I could die content, I suppose.”

  Thomasin stared. How could anyone throw fortunes into chasing the past, into a question without end?

  But his eyes—there was something in them. Pain, obsession, weight older than his years.

  “Dan…” She exhaled, folding her hands. “There are no guarantees. Evolutionary study means rewinding history endlessly. The world is far older than us. The answers may never come in your lifetime.”

  “Maybe. But what matters is whether I reached for them at all. I’d regret more if I never tried—if I just sat idle, haunted by the question. Even without the answer, I’ll know I pursued it.”

  He slid the envelope back toward her.

  “This is all I can do. Please.”

  Nora had never seen him this serious. If the other guards or even Freya were here, they’d think the same:

  For Fury, this mattered more than anything.

  Thomasin lowered her gaze. No matter how she dodged, the envelope always returned to her hands.

  “…This money. Is it clean?”

  “Yes. From mineral sales.”

  “…I’ll take it. But on one condition.”