I woke up early, still exhausted.

  Watching Otto wag his tail while taking a dump, I couldn’t stop thinking about last night’s dream—Tuesday was inside my body, using impossibly precise techniques to disassemble Hailey Ainsworth and a bunch of strangers into pieces, reassembling them into the pattern I’d seen on the slate.

  The most disturbing part wasn’t the violence. It was that everyone was alive. Naked and conscious. Even after their body were fused together as a whole new creature, they were still alive. Siblings, cousins, uncles—their brains all linked, every ounce of pain and despair echoing across three generations of awareness, amplifying...

  Seeing Rafe greet me so casually now made it pretty clear this hadn’t really happened. It must’ve been my anxieties about Ainsworth and my complicated hopes about Tuesday, mashed together into something morally repugnant yet somehow logical. A weird dream, that’s all.

  And since it was just a dream, I figured I didn’t need to hold myself to such strict ethical standards over it. I started mentally reviewing Tuesday’s techniques for manipulating Skills, quickly becoming absorbed—until Rafe patted my shoulder, snapping me back.

  “Sorry,” I said, “what did you just say?”

  Rafe looked at me with genuine concern. “I asked if you’d be interested in making ten grand in about an hour. If you're up for it, I’ll transfer five thousand to your account now, and the other five in cash after the conversation.”

  “That depends on what you want me to talk about.” I wasn’t about to give up anything about my Skill or Path for that kind of money, but a flat-out refusal would only make them suspicious. “I’d prefer not to discuss anything involving my Skill or Path. Is that okay?”

  Rafe placed two fingers on my carotid artery to check my pulse, then touched my forehead. “That won’t be an issue. First off, the Ainsworth Clade forbids anyone from asking about someone’s Path system outside of formal reviews—this includes Skills and long-term Collections. More importantly, this is a private talk. Hailey wants to discuss what happened during your evaluation—Roman has some questions too.”

  “It was a failed interrogation,” he added apologetically. “They’re hoping to learn from it. You can refuse to answer anything that feels too personal—just say, ‘I’d rather not talk about that.’ Simple as that. Roman spoke to me early this morning to confirm I hadn’t leaked anything to you about the test beforehand.”

  “So being too competent is a problem now?” I scooped up Otto’s still-warm poop into a bag. “Fine. I’ll treat it like the world’s most expensive therapy session for a delicate little trust-fund baby. But I want ten grand an hour, and after this, Ainsworth Clade must keep my promotion to captain under wraps for at least two weeks. Deal?”

  Rafe agreed with visible relief—too quickly. I realized I probably could’ve asked for more. I hurled the poop bag into the trash with unnecessary force.

  “Can you guarantee you’ll be the only one hearing what I’m about to say?” I asked while washing my hands, the water splashing noisily into the sink.

  The corners of Rafe’s mouth lifted instantly—he was happy I trusted him.

  “Of course.”

  “I’m raising the price so they think I’m just after money. What I really want is to plant a version of events that favors me—before they come up with their own explanations.” I lifted Otto and cleaned the dirt off his paws. “When I said my last sentence, my Skill kicked in. That’s what I really need to keep hidden.”

  “No fucking way!”

  Rafe took a step back, eyes clouded with disbelief. Then he lunged toward me and grabbed my shoulders. “Don’t joke about something like that!”

  “I saw something in the second test—a kind of Path not attached to any body. It opened up on its own when I thought I was really going to die, letting my Skill activate, just a little.” I looked him straight in the eye, watching his pupils contract. “If the price is high enough—by that I mean a human life—I think I can use it to create a door into Nowhere. I just don’t know yet what kind of things can pass through...”

  “You didn’t tell me that earlier. I didn’t hear any of this.” Rafe turned his head, avoiding my gaze. “This was just something you hallucinated while scared out of your mind.”

  “I see. So... when I understand more about this ‘hallucination,’ would you still want to hear about it?”

  “Oh, you can tell me anything,” Rafe replied, though when he said the word ‘hallucination’—with such weight—I could feel his fingers tremble.

  He was clearly fighting an intense inner battle. But I knew, in the end, he’d side with me. I’d given him an abnormal level of trust—like a drug. And for someone like Rafe, an orphan who lost his parents early and has no real family left, that kind of trust is nearly impossible to resist.

  “I see.”

  What followed was a comfortable, unspoken closeness between us. Without a word, we brought Otto back to my room together. I dug out his favorite rope toy and hid little treats in corners of the room for him to sniff out in a treasure hunt. Meanwhile, Rafe picked out the most appropriate outfit for me, then locked away my notebook and the pink diamond ring in the room’s safe.

  “You figured all this out just by your own observations and reasoning, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” I said. “And I know exactly how to explain it.”

  The meeting wasn’t held in my room this time. It was in a proper office—a hybrid between the Hunter Chief’s private office and a records room, complete with a full set of desks and bookshelves. Hot coffee and tea softened the sterile, morgue-like air. Four comfortable chairs were arranged around a coffee table, and the elegant three-tiered English afternoon tea stand made my stomach growl.

  “Make yourself comfortable. This isn’t an official meeting. There will be no record of this interview,” Roman Grane said, wearing a Henley shirt and jeans. The contours of his chest were still firm and defined. Hailey Ainsworth gave me a soft nod and gently slid the coffee and tea in my direction. “Suit yourself.”

  “Well, don’t mind if I do,” I replied, pouring myself a cup of English breakfast tea. I scarfed down a cucumber sandwich and a smoked salmon one, just enough to keep the hunger from dulling my thoughts. “Sorry—I took Otto for a walk and didn’t get a chance to eat.”

  “No worries. Let’s talk while we eat.” Rafe seemed pleased by the relaxed tone of the conversation and took a sip of his coffee. “Where should we start?”

  “That explosion footage. How sure were you it was fake at the time—and why?”

  Hailey Ainsworth’s voice was gentle but firm. It was a far cry from the coldness in the interrogation room. I found myself liking her, just a little.

  I searched “1958 oceanic atomic bomb test” on Bilibili and slid the video across the table for them to see. While the three of them watched, I smeared strawberry jam on a scone, took a big bite, and only started talking after I’d swallowed it all down.

  “Explosions can only come from two sources—man-made or not. Like I said back then, that was an oil field where no explosive gases were generated. So only one possibility remains. The person who made that video clearly didn’t understand the scale of a real explosion. Even a nuclear bomb detonated underwater doesn’t produce visible flames. It creates a water column—1,800 meters tall, 610 meters wide, and 91 meters thick. The blast in that video originated from inside the mine, buffered by its structure, yet the diameter still exceeded—judging by the platform used as a reference—at least two kilometers. That’s way too powerful. Statistically, I don’t think we’d just randomly stumble across a terror attack of a magnitude that’s never happened in human history. So the video has to be fake.”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Hailey took a careful sip of coffee, almost hiding behind the cup. Roman Grane raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp.

  “How could you understand that report? You only had it for a short time, didn’t you?”

  Easy question. I even had the bandwidth to nibble on a raisin scone.

  “I’m a grad student in chemical engineering. Took a petroleum processing course before. I forgot most of it after finals, but I still know where to look for safety-related data—our professor spent two weeks drilling safety assessments into us. I did a ton of insane calculations, it’s hard to forget.”

  Rafe was looking at me like I was a chimpanzee using a spoon.

  “That’s just luck—or maybe it’s part of your talent. Impressive,” the Hunter Chief said as he handed my phone back. “How did you recognize me?”

  I couldn’t help it—my eyes flicked to Roman Grane’s chest. Feeling slightly guilty, I took a big gulp of milk tea.

  “Because of your scent… it’s the same.”

  “Oh? You can remember how people smell?”

  The room fell dead silent. I looked to Rafe for help, only to be met with a withering glare.

  This kind of pain shouldn't be mine alone to carry. I grabbed Rafe by the collar and leaned in to whisper near his ear.

  “The first time I walked past the Chief, I was a tiny bit distracted by his pecs. When I got close, I caught a whiff of his scent. Later, in the sealed room, I smelled it again. One look at his pecs and deltoids confirmed it. Now tell me—how do I explain that in a way that doesn’t sound pervy?”

  Rafe pried my fingers off his shirt in disgust.

  “Look, here’s my gallery—skin tone, muscle shape, even the way they move—every chest is unique!” I opened a folder named ‘hehehe’. The screen filled with images of shirtless—or half-shirtless—men.

  “Enough—man, she’s making her point. It’s… reasonable enough.”

  Rafe pressed his lips into a thin, pained line, shut off my phone screen, and nodded to Roman Grane. “If you really want the full story, I’ll tell you later.”

  Hailey was visibly struggling not to laugh. She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, barely managing to suppress her grin. Roman looked away, unsure of where to set his eyes.

  I hadn’t said it outright, but everyone understood the implication—flirting with a superior in front of his colleagues was risky, no wonder…

  No. That was wrong of me. I shouldn’t toy with someone so dangerous. I quickly wiped the smirk off my face, downed a macaron and a fruit tart, and emptied the rest of my tea, waiting for the next question.

  “I’m not going to be upset by anything you say… But why did you think I was an amateur?”

  Dangerous question. Any answer would offend the Ainsworth heir. No exceptions. I had to go with the least offensive option.

  “For starters, if you knew anything about oilfields, you wouldn’t have let that ridiculous fake video reach me.”

  That was something I’d already said before—repeating it wouldn’t hit as hard. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Hailey’s gray bag on the floor and found the perfect segue.

  “Because your outfit didn’t match any hunter I’ve ever seen—and I’ve met over a hundred. No one else wears a cashmere vest.”

  Hailey blinked in surprise. “Cashmere?”

  “I like beautiful things.”

  As I said that, both men visibly shifted in their seats. The Hunter Chief looked mildly uncomfortable. Rafe’s mouth twitched downward. Was that… disapproval?

  “I used to study luxury goods through online videos. I learned how to spot authentic details for different brands—”

  “For Goyard, the hardware is all about the micro-finishing. Genuine pieces have a fine sandblasted texture on both the inner and outer rims—never smooth or shiny. The bottom corner of the ‘A’, and both ends of the ‘G’, need to be sharp and crisp. The left leg of the ‘R’ should slant backward—it’s not a neat rectangle. That one detail alone rules out most fakes.”

  “And then there’s the coated canvas printing. On real bags, the ‘Y’ has a clear variation in line thickness and a natural curve. The ‘E’ is rounded, not stiff; the top of the ‘H’ forms a V, not a U. Even the ‘R’ should have a slight limp to it. The snap button should have that same sandblasted texture inside—none of that rippling effect. As for the leather stamp, the typeface should be shallow and wide—if it’s deep and skinny, it’s wrong.”

  I pointed toward the bag by Hailey’s feet. “I’ve also looked into Loro Piana products. Though I can’t really tell their cashmere apart from other brands—I've only heard their baby cashmere has a faintly rough feel.”

  “But I can tell the difference between cashmere and wool. And your dental structure, your suppressed micro-expressions, your subconscious aversion to violence… None of them are definitive alone, but together, they were enough to make a judgment in that situation.”

  “Very impressive.” Hailey gave a soundless, elegant clap—like a fashion buyer spotting something unexpectedly brilliant on the runway. It was restrained appreciation, laced with subtle longing. “I have no further questions.”

  The most dangerous question had not been asked. I concealed my flood of relief and turned to Roman Grane.

  “What about the personal attacks?”

  I had no intention of apologizing to either of them. Faced with that kind of threat, a few verbal jabs were mild. Even if I’d tried to bite a chunk out of their flesh, they would’ve deserved it.

  And as for ‘attacks’—Roman Grane had done things to me far more outrageous than anything I said. These two played judge and jury without ever asking if I consented. They should be the ones feeling uncomfortable, not me.

  The dream came back, sharper now. That’s not how dreams are supposed to work. The timing of this talk was off—especially the fact that Rafe had been summoned so late at night. There’s no way Ainsworth’s corporate culture includes surprise midnight chats with employees.

  What if Hailey and the other Ainsworths had the same dream?

  That possibility sent a drunk-like rush through me—giddy with a twisted sense of clarity.

  “It’s just the most basic kind of provocation—go for whatever the other person is most proud of. If they’ve clearly spent a lot of time on their hairstyle, call it ridiculous. If their garden is full of flowers, say their landscaping is garbage and a pile of cow dung would look better. If they’re proud of their kid’s accomplishments... well, that one’s too mean, so I won’t say it. But you get the idea. Not ethical, but works great in online arguments.”

  All I had to do now was act normal, and they’d cave under their own fear of the unknown. I treated the entire conversation as if two event planners were reviewing their latest stunt. We went over a few more details. I even walked out of it two grand richer.

  “If that’s all… can I take a couple pastries with me?” I asked as I got up.

  “No need. There’s more in the kitchen.” Rafe clearly wanted to wrap this up. He stuffed my phone into my bag. “There’s still breakfast in the dining room if you’re still hungry.”

  “How can you be so heartless?” I glared at him, wrapped a cucumber sandwich and a plain scone in a napkin, and slipped them into my bag. “Otto can smell food but not eat it—he’ll think about it for hours.”

  “And in a dog’s world, every time a human leaves, they’re going hunting. Dogs love hunters who always return with something—so now he likes me more.”

  Rafe paused, as if something had just clicked. He stayed silent all the way until Otto gobbled down the snacks and rolled over in my arms, belly-up and blissful.

  That’s when he finally brought up leaving the oil field.

  And I could finally do what I really wanted. Even Tuesday’s plushie left a message in my gut: (^_^)v.