### Chapter 1
### Rogue's Booth
Afterlife breathed the way only Afterlife could.
Not loudly.
Not quietly.
Like a predator asleep with one eye open.
Music rolled through the club in low pulses that blended with conversation, old ventilation systems, distant laughter, and the constant background hum of people trying very hard not to look nervous around one another.
Night City's most dangerous professionals had mastered that particular skill.
The bar was busy enough to feel alive.
Not busy enough to feel crowded.
A good night.
The kind Rogue preferred.
The kind that usually meant somebody else was about to have a bad one.
Ace pushed through the final doorway and immediately slowed.
Mai noticed.
Shammy noticed that Mai noticed.
The chain remained undefeated.
"What?" Mai asked.
Ace pointed.
Rogue's booth.
"Paper."
Mai blinked once.
Then looked again.
There was, in fact, paper.
Actual paper.
Several sheets of it.
Spread across Rogue's table.
Not a holo projection.
Not a datashard.
Not a projected interface.
Paper.
Rogue noticed them looking and immediately looked irritated.
"Don't."
Ace walked closer.
"Someone die?"
"Worse."
Mai sat first.
Now she looked genuinely interested.
"Physical documentation."
"I know what paper is," Rogue said.
"Do you?"
Rogue narrowed her eyes.
Shammy sat down beside Mai.
The tall woman's silver-white hair shifted faintly in the ambient airflow.
The booth suddenly felt smaller.
Not because of her size.
Because Shammy always somehow brought weather with her.
Not enough to be supernatural.
Enough to be noticeable.
Ace dropped into her usual seat.
"Okay."
She pointed at the documents.
"What happened?"
Rogue leaned back.
For a moment she simply stared at the three of them.
Then she sighed.
The sigh of someone who had already explained something stupid twice and expected to do it a third time.
"I got a client."
Ace immediately looked suspicious.
Mai looked interested.
Shammy looked curious.
Three different reactions.
All predictable.
"That's literally your job," Ace said.
"Normally, yes."
"This one different?"
"Very."
That got everyone's attention.
Rogue worked with murderers.
Corporate spies.
Militia commanders.
Occasional cult leaders.
At least one confirmed serial killer.
And whatever the hell Fixer politics actually counted as.
For Rogue to call someone unusual required effort.
"How unusual?" Mai asked.
Rogue tapped the paper.
"Rich."
"Not unusual."
"Extremely rich."
"Still not unusual."
"Extremely rich and insists on paperwork."
Mai sat up slightly.
Ace groaned immediately.
"Oh no."
"Oh yes."
Rogue slid one sheet across the table.
It contained exactly one thing.
A numbered list.
Ace read it.
Then read it again.
Then looked up.
"These are rules."
"Correct."
"Clients don't get rules."
"This one apparently does."
Mai had already started reading.
Her eyes moved rapidly.
Shammy leaned over slightly.
The list was remarkably short.
1. One item per retrieval.
2. One delivery per contract.
3. No substitutions.
4. No intermediaries.
5. Delivery must be made directly to the client.
Ace frowned.
"That's it?"
"Keep reading."
"There isn't anything else."
"There is."
Mai found it first.
Her expression changed.
Not much.
Just enough.
That was always dangerous.
"What?" Ace asked.
Mai turned the page.
There was one final line.
A single sentence.
Typed separately from the rest.
As if whoever wrote it considered it more important than everything above it.
Delivery may only occur on Friday the Thirteenth.
Silence.
Not dramatic silence.
Confused silence.
The kind that happened when something was too stupid to process immediately.
Ace blinked.
Then blinked again.
Then looked at Rogue.
"That's stupid."
"That's what I told him."
Mai frowned.
"That is statistically inconvenient."
"Also what I told him."
Shammy tilted her head slightly.
The atmospheric pressure inside the booth shifted by a fraction.
Not enough to notice consciously.
Enough to feel.
"That sounds deliberate."
Rogue pointed at her.
"Exactly."
Ace looked back down at the paper.
Then back up.
"Why?"
"No idea."
"You asked."
"I did."
"And?"
Rogue's expression became flat.
"He said it was non-negotiable."
Ace laughed once.
A short dry sound.
"He sounds annoying."
"You have no idea."
Mai continued reading.
Nothing else appeared unusual.
No symbols.
No hidden clauses.
No bizarre legal language.
Just a surprisingly normal contract wrapped around one completely irrational requirement.
Which somehow made it worse.
"What does he want?" Mai asked.
Rogue reached for another sheet.
This one contained an image.
Old.
High resolution.
Museum-grade photography.
A gold pocket watch.
Worn.
Elegant.
Expensive.
And completely ordinary.
Ace stared.
Then looked at Rogue.
Then looked at the watch again.
Then looked back at Rogue.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"A watch."
"A watch."
"You're paying us to steal a watch."
"Retrieve."
"Same thing."
"Not legally."
Ace snorted.
Mai zoomed in on the image.
Immediately.
Of course she did.
The watch was old.
Very old.
The casing showed wear around the edges.
The chain was missing.
Several small repairs were visible if someone knew where to look.
Mai knew where to look.
"Hm."
Rogue pointed at the accompanying notes.
"Read the attribution."
Mai did.
Then read it again.
Then raised an eyebrow.
"Interesting."
Ace sighed.
Whenever Mai said interesting, somebody else's week usually got worse.
"What?"
Mai turned the image around.
A single line sat beneath the photograph.
Attributed to Al Capone.
Ace stared.
Then laughed.
Then stopped laughing.
Because Rogue wasn't smiling.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Oh."
"Exactly."
Shammy leaned slightly closer.
"The gangster."
"The gangster," Rogue confirmed.
"The one from Chicago."
"The very same."
Ace looked back at the watch.
It had somehow become more interesting and less interesting at exactly the same time.
"Attributed."
"Correct."
"So nobody knows."
"Correct."
"Could be fake."
"Could."
"Could be real."
"Could."
Ace pointed at the image.
"And somebody is paying this much money for maybe?"
Rogue smiled.
Not pleasantly.
"No."
She slid the final page across the table.
The payment figure sat near the bottom.
For a moment nobody spoke.
Even Ace.
Then Ace looked at Rogue.
Slowly.
"What."
"Yep."
"That's insane."
"Yep."
Mai checked the number twice.
Then a third time.
"That exceeds market value."
"By a lot."
"Significantly."
"Yep."
Shammy finally spoke.
Nobody cares this much about a watch."
The booth became quiet again.
This time for a different reason.
Because everyone at the table agreed.
Rogue folded her arms.
"That's exactly why I'm interested."
Mai continued reading the documentation.
Slowly now.
More carefully.
The way she read things when she suspected the important detail was hiding somewhere boring.
Thirty seconds passed.
Then forty.
Then a full minute.
Ace was just beginning to lose interest when Mai stopped.
Completely.
Ace noticed immediately.
"What?"
Mai didn't answer.
She was reading the same paragraph again.
Then a third time.
"Mai."
"One moment."
That was never a reassuring phrase.
Ace leaned forward.
"What did you find?"
Mai turned the document around.
One section had been highlighted by whoever assembled the file.
Not the watch description.
Not the Capone attribution.
Not the valuation.
Ownership history.
A short note sat at the bottom.
Ace read it.
Then frowned.
Then read it again.
Several verified owners.
Multiple documented transfers.
No recorded sale events.
The booth became quiet.
Even Rogue looked amused.
Ace stared at the line.
Then at the watch.
Then back at the line.
The watch had belonged to multiple people.
That part wasn't unusual.
The unusual part was how.
Nobody had sold it.
Not once.
Mai finally looked up.
For the first time since entering the booth, she sounded genuinely curious.
"That's strange."
Ace nodded slowly.
For once, she agreed.
"Nobody ever sold the watch."
---
### Chapter 2
### The Watch
Mai had already disappeared into the data.
Not physically.
Physically she was still sitting in Rogue's booth.
Mentally, however, she was somewhere deep inside auction records, museum archives, insurance filings, ownership registries, and the sort of historical documentation that made normal people reconsider their life choices.
Ace recognized the look immediately.
Shammy recognized Ace recognizing it.
The chain remained undefeated.
Rogue watched the process with mild amusement.
"How long?"
Mai didn't look up.
"Depends."
"On?"
"How much nonsense historians have attached to this object."
Ace leaned back.
"That's a lot, isn't it?"
"Almost certainly."
Rogue nodded.
"Good answer."
The watch hovered above the table now, projected from Mai's agent.
Gold casing.
White face.
Black Roman numerals.
Elegant hands.
A tiny scratch near the crown.
Several dents visible along one edge.
Age lived in the object naturally.
Not as decoration.
As evidence.
"Looks normal," Ace said.
"It is normal."
"You don't sound convinced."
Mai zoomed in further.
"Normal objects can accumulate unusual histories."
"That sounds like a warning."
"It often is."
Rogue took a drink.
"The client agrees with you."
"Which part?"
"All of it."
That was somehow less reassuring.
Mai continued reading.
The first verified appearance of the watch appeared in Chicago records from the late 1920s.
After that things became messy.
Ownership records existed.
Then disappeared.
Then reappeared.
Private collections.
Estate inventories.
Insurance documentation.
A museum appraisal that lasted less than three months before the owner withdrew the piece without explanation.
Nothing extraordinary.
Just irritating.
Which was often worse.
"Huh."
Everyone looked at Mai.
"Huh good or huh bad?"
"Neither."
"That's a Mai answer."
"I found the legend."
Ace immediately looked disappointed.
"Oh no."
"Oh yes."
Rogue smiled.
"Read it."
Mai enlarged another section.
A newspaper clipping appeared.
Old.
Poorly preserved.
One hundred and fifty years of reproductions had not improved it.
A headline referenced a Chicago gang shooting.
Not by name.
Not directly.
The sort of reporting that existed when newspapers were trying very hard not to get murdered.
Beneath it sat the story.
Or one version of it.
"There are at least eleven documented variants," Mai said.
"Of course there are."
"The most common version claims the watch belonged to Al Capone."
Ace nodded.
Reasonable.
"The second claim states he was carrying it during one of the larger gang conflicts of the period."
Still reasonable.
"The third claim is where historians begin drinking."
Rogue laughed.
"Now we're getting somewhere."
Mai scrolled.
"The watch allegedly stopped at the exact moment the first shot was fired."
Ace groaned.
"There it is."
Shammy smiled faintly.
"The legend."
"The legend."
Mai kept reading.
"Other versions claim a bullet struck the watch."
"Convenient."
"Several versions claim the watch saved Capone's life."
"More convenient."
"One source claims the watch wasn't even present."
Ace pointed.
"That one sounds honest."
Mai nodded.
"That's the historian consensus."
Rogue looked offended.
"Historians ruin everything."
"They call it evidence."
"They call everything evidence."
Mai ignored them both.
The problem wasn't the legend.
Legends happened.
Especially around famous criminals.
The problem was the pattern underneath it.
The pattern kept reappearing.
Different owners.
Different decades.
Different cities.
Same behavior.
People acquired the watch.
Kept it for a period of time.
Then gave it away.
Donated it.
Inherited it onward.
Returned it.
Abandoned it.
Lost it.
Every method imaginable.
Except one.
Nobody sold it.
Ever.
The first time might be coincidence.
The second time might be coincidence.
The seventh time became annoying.
The eleventh time became statistically interesting.
The eighteenth time became impossible to ignore.
Mai sat back slightly.
Now she understood why the client had attracted Rogue's attention.
Not because of the watch.
Because of the question.
"Still think it's just a watch?" Shammy asked.
Ace considered the image.
Then considered the ownership history.
Then considered the absurd payment.
"No."
Rogue nodded.
"Good."
"What do you think it is?"
"I think somebody is paying us a stupid amount of money to retrieve a piece of gold with a weird biography."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have."
Mai enlarged the ownership list again.
One name caught her eye.
Then another.
Then a third.
Not famous people.
Not powerful people.
Just ordinary people.
Teacher.
Mechanic.
Bookstore owner.
Retired accountant.
The sort of people nobody wrote stories about.
Which somehow made the pattern stranger.
"If this was a scam," Mai said quietly, "the ownership profile would look different."
Rogue raised an eyebrow.
"How?"
"It would attract collectors."
"It didn't."
"It would attract investors."
"It didn't."
"It would attract criminals."
"It didn't."
Mai tapped the list.
"Instead it attracted normal people."
The table went quiet.
That observation bothered everyone immediately.
Because it felt important.
And nobody knew why.
Shammy looked at the watch again.
The atmospheric pressure around the booth shifted by the smallest fraction.
A subconscious response.
The kind she had learned not to ignore.
"What?" Ace asked.
Shammy's eyes remained on the projection.
For several seconds she didn't answer.
Then she finally spoke.
"The watch isn't the interesting part."
Ace sighed.
"That's never a good sign."
"No."
Shammy's expression remained thoughtful.
"It really isn't."
The image of the watch rotated slowly above the table.
Gold.
Ordinary.
Historical.
Possibly famous.
Possibly not.
A small object carrying far more attention than it should.
Which meant the real mystery wasn't the watch.
The real mystery was the person willing to pay a fortune to get it back.
And for the first time, Ace found herself wondering about the client more than the object.
That realization bothered her far more than the watch ever could.
---
### Chapter 3
### Road Trip
Night City disappeared surprisingly quickly when somebody kept driving.
One moment neon advertisements fought for space across entire building faces.
The next there was concrete.
Then warehouses.
Then industrial zones.
Then long stretches of highway cutting through land that looked increasingly uninterested in human civilization.
The city always felt infinite from the inside.
The highways disagreed.
The SUV hummed steadily beneath them.
Ace occupied the passenger seat.
Mai sat behind her with an active data window projected from her agent.
Shammy sat beside Mai, long legs occupying far more of the rear seating area than the vehicle's designers had probably intended.
Nobody complained.
The alternative was making Shammy drive.
Nobody was brave enough for that.
Reyes was behind the wheel.
Which meant everybody else could relax slightly.
Only slightly.
The ugly vehicle rolled south beneath a sky so wide it looked excessive.
The radio had lost signal twenty minutes ago.
Nobody missed it.
Mai was still reading.
That alone was becoming concerning.
Ace glanced into the mirror.
"Still looking at the watch?"
Mai did not immediately answer.
A dangerous sign.
Eventually she blinked and returned to reality.
"Yes."
"You found something."
"I found nothing."
Ace groaned.
Reyes laughed.
Shammy smiled.
They all knew what that meant.
Mai adjusted the projection.
The gold pocket watch rotated slowly above her palm.
Elegant.
Expensive.
Ordinary.
Increasingly suspicious.
"The ownership chain is irritating."
"Technical term?" Reyes asked.
"Very."
The projection expanded.
Names appeared.
Dates.
Locations.
Transfers.
Inheritance records.
Insurance filings.
Donation notices.
Estate settlements.
Everything looked normal.
Until it didn't.
Shammy leaned forward slightly.
"The missing sales."
Mai nodded.
"Exactly."
Nobody had sold the watch.
Not once.
Several verified owners.
Decades of records.
Thousands of pages of documentation.
Not one sale.
Not one auction.
Not one private purchase.
Not one receipt.
The watch simply...
moved.
Ace still didn't like that.
"Maybe it's coincidence."
Mai gave her a look.
Not a hostile look.
A statistical one.
Ace immediately regretted speaking.
"Right."
"Thank you."
Reyes grinned.
"Always nice when Mai kills optimism before lunch."
"I am preserving realism."
"That's what I said."
Outside the window, the landscape shifted again.
Dry grass.
Old fencing.
Telephone poles.
A windmill turning slowly against the horizon.
The sort of scenery people only noticed when there was nothing else to look at.
Shammy watched it quietly.
Unlike the others, she wasn't looking at the data.
She was looking at the shape around the data.
The empty space.
The missing pieces.
The pressure.
Eventually Ace noticed.
"What?"
Shammy's gaze remained on the passing landscape.
"The watch isn't the interesting part."
Mai immediately nodded.
Ace sighed.
"You're both doing that thing."
"What thing?" Mai asked.
"The thing where you say something that sounds meaningful and then refuse to explain it."
"I can explain."
"Good."
Mai pointed at the projection.
"If this was about money, the ownership history would look different."
Reasonable.
"If this was about collecting, the ownership history would look different."
Also reasonable.
"If this was about historical significance, the ownership history would look different."
Ace frowned.
"So what does it look like?"
Mai hesitated.
That was unusual.
Then Shammy answered first.
"It looks personal."
The car became quiet.
Not because anyone disagreed.
Because everybody immediately understood what she meant.
The people connected to the watch weren't collectors.
They weren't historians.
They weren't investors.
Most weren't even particularly wealthy.
Teacher.
Mechanic.
Accountant.
Store owner.
Farmer.
Normal people.
Ordinary lives.
Ordinary histories.
A watch that somehow kept finding its way into ordinary hands.
Reyes finally broke the silence.
"Okay."
Everyone looked at her.
"I officially dislike the watch."
Ace nodded.
"Same."
Mai nodded.
"Reasonable."
Shammy nodded.
"Also same."
The collective agreement somehow made things worse.
The navigation marker updated.
Destination: 18 kilometers.
The current owner lived in a small settlement far enough from Night City that local gossip probably moved faster than the Net.
Reyes glanced at the route.
"Almost there."
Mai finally collapsed the ownership records.
For the first time in nearly an hour.
That alone worried Ace.
"Done?"
"No."
"Finished?"
"No."
"Giving up?"
Mai looked offended.
"Never."
"Good."
"However..."
Ace immediately became suspicious.
"However?"
Mai activated a second file.
A smaller one.
Only a few pages long.
The ownership records.
Again.
Specifically the most recent owner.
The man currently holding the watch.
Age seventy-eight.
Retired.
No criminal record.
No gang affiliation.
No known anomalous connections.
No outstanding warrants.
No significant debt.
No known reason to possess something potentially worth a fortune.
In short:
Normal.
Painfully normal.
Which made him fit the pattern perfectly.
The SUV rolled onward beneath a sky that seemed determined to provide no answers.
Ahead, beyond a line of old trees and rusted fencing, the navigation marker blinked once.
Destination reached.
Reyes pulled into a gravel driveway.
The engine died.
Silence settled across the vehicle.
For a moment nobody moved.
Then Ace looked toward the small house ahead.
Modest.
Well maintained.
Ordinary.
The sort of place that should never have appeared in the same sentence as Al Capone.
Beside her, Shammy tilted her head slightly.
A tiny atmospheric shift moved through the cabin.
Not concern.
Not danger.
Just attention.
Interesting.
Ace had learned to trust that distinction.
Reyes opened her door.
"Let's go meet the man."
Mai gathered her agent.
Shammy unfolded herself from the rear seat with the sort of impossible grace that always made normal furniture look inadequate.
The four of them headed toward the house together.
And for reasons Ace still couldn't explain, her instincts refused to relax.
---
### Chapter 4
### The Man Who Keeps It
The gate squealed when Reyes pushed it open.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to suggest maintenance happened whenever somebody remembered.
The gravel path beyond wound through a yard that looked comfortably lived in.
Not neglected.
Not manicured.
Just used.
A vegetable garden occupied one corner.
A rusted tractor occupied another.
Several fruit trees provided patches of shade across yellowing grass.
A dog lifted its head from beneath one of them, considered the newcomers, and decided they were not worth standing up for.
Ace respected that.
The house itself was modest.
Single story.
White paint faded by decades of weather.
A front porch.
A rocking chair.
A wind chime that occasionally moved despite the apparent lack of wind.
Nothing about the place suggested wealth.
Nothing suggested hidden criminal connections.
Nothing suggested somebody in possession of an object currently valued higher than most vehicles in the driveway.
Which made it fit the pattern perfectly.
Reyes climbed the porch steps first.
Ace followed.
Mai was already studying the property.
Shammy was studying something else entirely.
The atmosphere.
The feel of the place.
The things that never appeared in documentation.
The things that often mattered anyway.
Reyes knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Nobody answered.
Then the front door opened.
An old man stood there.
Late seventies.
Possibly older.
Gray hair.
Reading glasses hanging from a cord around his neck.
Blue work shirt.
Faded jeans.
The sort of face that had spent decades outdoors and considered sunscreen a personal insult.
He looked at the four visitors.
Then nodded once.
"About time."
Ace blinked.
Reyes blinked.
Mai blinked.
Shammy smiled slightly.
The old man stepped aside.
"You folks coming in or not?"
Nobody moved for a second.
Then Reyes shrugged.
"Well."
Ace nodded.
"Fair."
They entered.
The inside matched the outside.
Bookshelves.
Family photographs.
A television old enough to remember when television mattered.
Several hunting trophies.
A grandfather clock quietly ticking in the corner.
The smell of coffee.
The smell of old wood.
The smell of a house that had been a home for a very long time.
The old man pointed toward the dining table.
"Sit."
Everybody sat.
The old man remained standing.
Then he walked toward a cabinet.
Nobody spoke.
Nobody needed to.
Because everybody was watching the same thing.
The cabinet opened.
The old man reached inside.
And removed a small wooden box.
Nothing fancy.
No carved symbols.
No antique craftsmanship.
Just a box.
The sort of box somebody might use to store letters.
Or family keepsakes.
Or something they had stopped thinking about years ago.
He carried it to the table.
Set it down.
Then pushed it toward Ace.
"There."
The room became quiet.
Ace opened the box.
Inside rested a gold pocket watch.
Exactly like the photographs.
Exactly like the records.
Exactly like the projection.
Which somehow made it feel stranger.
Because reality almost never matched documentation this neatly.
The old man sat down opposite them.
Crossed his arms.
And waited.
Finally Reyes broke first.
"You're making this surprisingly easy."
The old man laughed.
Not loudly.
Just enough to suggest he had heard that before.
"That's because I've been wondering when somebody would finally come for it."
The room became quiet.
Mai immediately looked up.
That answer interested her.
A lot.
"What does that mean?"
The old man pointed at the watch.
"It means that thing doesn't stay."
Ace frowned.
"It stayed with you."
"Twenty-three years."
"That's a long time."
"It is."
The old man nodded.
Then smiled.
A small tired smile.
The kind older people wore when discussing something they had spent years trying and failing to understand.
"And that's apparently a record."
Shammy tilted her head.
The atmosphere around the table shifted slightly.
Not danger.
Interest.
The old man noticed.
Not the atmospheric shift.
Shammy.
People tended to notice Shammy.
Ignoring nearly two meters of impossible grace required effort.
"You haven't touched it yet."
Everyone looked at him.
The old man pointed at Shammy.
"Most people pick it up immediately."
Shammy looked at the watch.
Then at him.
"Should I?"
The old man shrugged.
"Doesn't matter."
A pause.
Then:
"Nothing happens."
That answer landed strangely.
Because nobody had asked if something happened.
The old man noticed.
Then sighed.
"Everybody asks if it's cursed."
"Is it?" Reyes asked.
"No."
The answer came instantly.
Without hesitation.
Without drama.
Just certainty.
The old man leaned back.
Chair creaking beneath him.
"No voices."
"No ghosts."
"No demons."
"No invisible gangsters."
Ace smiled despite herself.
The old man pointed.
"Exactly."
Then he pointed at the watch.
"The annoying part is much simpler."
The grandfather clock ticked softly in the corner.
Outside, a windmill creaked somewhere beyond the house.
The old man looked down at the gold watch.
For a few moments his expression softened.
Not affection.
Not attachment.
Recognition.
Like somebody looking at a neighbor they had known for decades.
Then he looked back up.
"Everybody who owns it eventually decides it should belong somewhere else."
Nobody spoke.
Because that wasn't an answer.
But it also wasn't not an answer.
The old man laughed softly.
"See?"
He pointed at their faces.
"That's exactly the reaction."
Mai finally leaned forward.
"Why?"
The old man spread his hands.
"No idea."
"You've had it twenty-three years."
"I know."
"You never investigated?"
The old man barked a laugh.
"Young lady."
He pointed toward an entire wall of books.
"I've investigated for twenty-three years."
Fair.
Mai accepted the point.
The old man's smile faded slightly.
"You know the funny thing?"
Nobody answered.
Because everybody suspected the funny thing would not actually be funny.
The old man tapped the wooden box.
"I never wanted to keep it."
Another tap.
"But I never wanted to sell it either."
The room became very quiet.
Because suddenly everybody remembered the ownership records.
No sales.
No auctions.
No transactions.
Just transfers.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The old man noticed the realization arrive.
His smile returned.
Smaller this time.
More thoughtful.
"Funny, isn't it?"
No.
Not really.
That was the problem.
The watch sat quietly in its box.
Gold.
Ordinary.
Historical.
Possibly famous.
Possibly not.
Looking exactly like a watch.
Which was rapidly becoming the least believable thing about it.
The old man pushed the box slightly closer to Ace.
"I suppose it's your turn now."
For reasons Ace couldn't explain, that sentence bothered her more than anything else he'd said.
Not because of the watch.
Because of the certainty.
The old man wasn't getting rid of it.
He wasn't selling it.
He wasn't escaping it.
He wasn't relieved.
It felt more like he was completing something.
And that thought stayed with Ace long after the conversation moved on.
---
### Chapter 5
### The Story
The grandfather clock ticked softly in the corner.
Nobody spoke for a while.
The watch sat between them.
Gold.
Silent.
Entirely too ordinary.
The old man eventually leaned back and folded his arms.
"You know what the worst part is?"
Reyes sighed.
"There it is."
The old man pointed at her.
"Exactly."
Ace almost smiled.
The old man clearly belonged to that particular category of elderly people who had survived largely through stubbornness and sarcasm.
Potentially dangerous.
"Twenty-three years," he continued.
"That's how long I've had this thing."
His finger tapped the wooden box once.
"And after twenty-three years, I've learned exactly one useful fact."
Mai sat forward slightly.
The old man noticed.
He seemed amused by her.
Possibly because she was the only person at the table who looked genuinely interested in historical documentation.
"Every owner eventually becomes curious."
Mai nodded.
Reasonable.
"Then they start digging."
Also reasonable.
"Then they find exactly what I found."
Ace frowned.
"Which is?"
The old man smiled.
"A headache."
Reyes groaned immediately.
The old man looked delighted.
"Good. Somebody still appreciates proper storytelling."
Nobody appreciated proper storytelling.
Everybody wanted answers.
The old man ignored this reality.
"I found seven owners."
Mai immediately interrupted.
"Seven verified owners."
The old man pointed at her.
"Exactly."
Mai looked mildly pleased.
The old man continued.
"Probably more."
"Almost certainly more," Mai agreed.
"But seven I could verify myself."
He pointed toward a nearby bookshelf.
Several thick binders sat on the lowest shelf.
Labeled.
Organized.
Well used.
Mai's eyes immediately found them.
The old man noticed.
Again.
And smiled.
"You'd like those."
"Very much."
"I figured."
Ace was beginning to suspect the old man enjoyed tormenting researchers.
The evidence was mounting.
"Anyway."
The old man leaned forward.
"Different decades."
A finger.
"Different cities."
Another finger.
"Different lives."
A third.
"Same outcome."
The room became quiet.
Because everyone already knew what he was going to say.
Nobody ever sold the watch.
The old man nodded.
As if confirming the answer himself.
"Exactly."
Outside, wind moved through the trees.
The old house creaked softly.
The grandfather clock continued measuring time nobody was paying attention to.
"What happened to them?" Shammy asked.
The old man looked at her.
Really looked.
For several seconds.
Then answered.
"Nothing."
Shammy nodded.
Interesting.
Not dismissive.
Just interesting.
The old man pointed.
"That's the problem."
Again.
Nothing.
No curses.
No murders.
No insanity.
No mysterious disappearances.
No dramatic newspaper headlines.
No secret societies.
No ancient blood rituals.
Just lives.
Ordinary lives.
Teacher.
Farmer.
Mechanic.
Accountant.
Store owner.
Widow.
Veteran.
The sort of people history usually ignored.
The old man opened one of the binders.
Several pages had become yellow with age.
Photographs.
Copies of documents.
Newspaper clippings.
Handwritten notes.
Twenty-three years of curiosity preserved in paper form.
Mai looked ready to adopt him.
Ace recognized the symptoms.
Dangerous.
The old man flipped through several pages.
Eventually stopping at one.
A black-and-white photograph.
Chicago.
Late 1920s.
A crowded street.
Police.
Spectators.
Several automobiles.
A mess.
"One of the stories."
The photograph sat between them.
Mai studied it immediately.
The old man continued.
"The Capone story."
There it was.
The legend.
Or one version of it.
"The watch is supposed to have been in his pocket during a gang shooting."
Ace nodded.
They already knew that much.
The old man smiled.
"That's the boring version."
Of course it was.
"There's a better one."
Reyes leaned back.
"Oh no."
"Oh yes."
The old man was enjoying this far too much.
He pointed at the photograph.
"One version says the watch stopped at the exact moment the shooting started."
Ace rolled her eyes.
"Convenient."
"Very."
The old man flipped another page.
"Another version says a bullet struck the watch."
Mai immediately interrupted.
"No damage exists on the casing consistent with that."
The old man pointed at her.
"Correct."
He seemed delighted.
"Somebody actually checked."
"Several people checked."
"Exactly."
The old man flipped another page.
Then another.
Then another.
The stack of contradictory stories continued.
Each different.
Each incompatible.
Each impossible to verify.
And yet...
The stories persisted.
Decade after decade.
Owner after owner.
Generation after generation.
The old man eventually closed the binder.
Then looked directly at Ace.
"You know what finally bothered me?"
Ace shook her head.
The old man tapped the cover.
Not hard.
Just enough.
"Nobody agrees what happened."
Reasonable.
"Nobody agrees if it was Capone's."
Also reasonable.
"Nobody agrees if the watch was even there."
Again reasonable.
The room waited.
The old man smiled.
"And yet everybody tells the story."
Silence.
The grandfather clock ticked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Nobody spoke.
Because suddenly that felt important.
The stories contradicted each other.
The evidence contradicted the stories.
The witnesses contradicted the evidence.
The historians contradicted the witnesses.
And still...
The legend survived.
The old man sat back again.
Slowly.
Comfortably.
Like somebody arriving at the conclusion of a twenty-three-year argument.
"I think people keep chasing the wrong question."
Mai frowned.
"What question?"
He pointed toward the photograph.
Then the watch.
Then the binder.
Then the four visitors.
"Everybody asks whether the story is true."
Reasonable.
The old man nodded.
"Maybe that's not the interesting part."
A very familiar sentence.
Shammy smiled faintly.
The old man noticed.
Again.
The two exchanged a brief look.
Something passed between them.
Recognition perhaps.
Or simply similar instincts.
Then the old man looked back at the watch.
The gold casing reflected afternoon sunlight from the nearby window.
A brief flash.
Gone immediately.
And for a moment Ace found herself wondering something she hadn't considered before.
Not:
Was the story true?
Not:
Did the watch belong to Capone?
Not:
Was the watch anomalous?
Instead:
Why had so many completely ordinary people spent so much time trying to understand it?
The old man saw the thought arrive.
His smile widened slightly.
"Yeah."
Ace blinked.
"What?"
The old man pointed at her.
"That's the look."
"The look?"
"The exact look."
The room became quiet.
Again.
The old man looked down at the watch.
Then at the visitors.
Then out the window.
Toward a horizon he had probably watched for decades.
And when he finally spoke again, his voice had lost most of its humor.
"That's when it starts."
Nobody asked what he meant.
For reasons none of them could explain.
Nobody wanted to.
---
### Chapter 6
### Acquisition
Nobody spoke for almost a minute after that.
The grandfather clock filled the silence.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The watch remained exactly where it had been the entire time.
Gold.
Silent.
Completely indifferent to the attention surrounding it.
Ace wasn't sure whether that made things better or worse.
Eventually Reyes stood.
"Okay."
Everyone looked at her.
"We came for a watch."
Fair.
"We got a watch."
Also fair.
"We are now discussing philosophy with a retired farmer."
The old man raised a finger.
"Technically retired mechanic."
Reyes pointed back.
"See?"
The old man looked pleased.
Nobody knew why.
Ace finally closed the wooden box.
The soft click seemed oddly final.
The old man watched.
Not sadly.
Not happily.
Just attentively.
Like somebody observing a process reaching its natural conclusion.
That bothered Ace.
Again.
Everything about this job kept bothering Ace.
Which would have been less irritating if she could explain why.
Mai was still staring at the binders.
The old man noticed.
Again.
"Take copies."
Mai blinked.
"What?"
"Take copies."
The old man shrugged.
"I spent twenty-three years collecting that information."
Another shrug.
"Seems wasteful not to share it."
Mai looked genuinely surprised.
That almost never happened.
"Are you sure?"
The old man laughed.
"Young lady."
He pointed toward the watch.
"It's not my turn anymore."
The room became quiet.
Again.
Not because the statement was frightening.
Because everybody was becoming increasingly tired of how naturally he said things that sounded completely unreasonable.
The old man stood.
Walked toward the bookshelf.
Removed a datastick.
Returned.
Placed it on the table.
"There."
Mai accepted it carefully.
The way archaeologists handled things they suspected might contain answers.
Or more questions.
Usually both.
"Thank you."
The old man nodded.
"You're welcome."
Then he looked at Ace.
Specifically at the wooden box.
"Take good care of it."
Ace frowned.
The old man immediately laughed.
"Not because something bad will happen."
"That's reassuring."
"No, it isn't."
Fair.
The old man folded his arms.
"Because eventually somebody else will ask you the same questions."
The sentence settled heavily into the room.
Nobody had a response ready.
Even Reyes.
Which was unusual.
Outside, the wind picked up slightly.
The old windmill creaked somewhere beyond the house.
The dog barked once.
Then apparently changed its mind.
The old man glanced toward the window.
"Weather's turning."
Shammy looked outside.
Then tilted her head slightly.
"No."
The old man blinked.
Shammy smiled.
"Not yet."
The old man stared.
Then laughed.
A genuinely surprised laugh this time.
"Well."
He pointed.
"You're interesting."
Shammy's smile widened slightly.
"Thank you."
"Wasn't necessarily a compliment."
"I know."
The old man seemed delighted by that answer.
Ace filed the interaction away.
Another thing that would probably make sense later.
Or never.
Night City had taught her both outcomes were equally likely.
Eventually everybody stood.
The meeting had reached its natural end.
No negotiations.
No haggling.
No threats.
No hidden agendas.
No sudden betrayal.
Just a watch changing hands.
That alone felt suspicious.
As they moved toward the door, the old man stopped them.
"One more thing."
Everybody turned.
The old man pointed at the watch.
Still resting inside the wooden box beneath Ace's arm.
"If you meet the collector."
The room became quiet.
The collector.
The invisible center of the entire job.
The reason any of this was happening.
Ace nodded.
The old man considered his next words carefully.
For the first time since they'd arrived.
Then:
"Ask him why twenty."
Nobody moved.
The old man smiled.
Not humor this time.
Curiosity.
The genuine kind.
"Because that's the question I never managed to answer."
Silence.
The old man stepped back.
Conversation over.
The meeting finished.
The mystery somehow larger than when they'd arrived.
Which felt unfair.
They thanked him.
Even Reyes.
The old man accepted the thanks with the casual attitude of someone returning a borrowed ladder.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Outside, the afternoon sun had begun its slow descent toward evening.
The four of them walked back toward the vehicle.
Nobody spoke immediately.
The house remained behind them.
Quiet.
Ordinary.
Perfectly normal.
Exactly like the man inside.
Which somehow made everything worse.
The SUV doors closed one by one.
The engine started.
Gravel crunched beneath the tires.
The house slowly disappeared behind them.
Several kilometers passed before anyone finally spoke.
It was Mai.
Naturally.
"Twenty."
Ace looked over.
Mai stared at the road ahead.
Not the watch.
Not the documents.
The number.
"Twenty what?" Reyes asked.
Mai frowned.
"That's the problem."
The road stretched ahead beneath the setting sun.
Gold light spilled across dry fields and old fences.
Inside the vehicle, the wooden box sat quietly between the seats.
Silent.
Patient.
Looking exactly like an object that should not occupy this much space in anyone's thoughts.
Shammy looked out the side window.
Watching the horizon.
Watching nothing.
Then finally spoke.
Softly.
Almost to herself.
"Maybe the collector isn't building a collection."
Nobody answered.
Because suddenly nobody was sure that he was.
And that thought followed them all the way back toward Night City.
---
### Chapter 7
### Night City Return
Night City appeared on the horizon just after sunset.
Not gradually.
Not politely.
One moment there was darkness, empty highway, and distant power lines.
The next there was light.
Too much light.
Neon.
Advertisements.
Traffic streams.
Corporate towers fighting for dominance against the night sky.
A city incapable of subtlety.
Ace had spent enough time away from it recently to notice the difference again.
The city always looked slightly insane when viewed from outside.
Reyes drove the final stretch in comfortable silence.
The wooden box rested between the seats.
Nobody touched it.
Nobody needed to.
The watch had already occupied enough space in everyone's thoughts.
The city gates swallowed them.
Traffic thickened.
Street noise returned.
The familiar pulse of Night City settled around them like an old habit.
For the first time all day, Ace relaxed slightly.
Only slightly.
Mai was still reading.
Reyes had stopped pretending not to be curious.
Shammy remained quiet.
Watching.
Thinking.
The same way she had been since leaving the old man's house.
Eventually the SUV rolled into the safehouse garage.
The engine died.
Nobody moved immediately.
Then Reyes pointed at the box.
"Congratulations."
Ace looked over.
"What?"
"You own the world's most annoying watch."
"I do not."
"It's sitting next to you."
"Temporarily."
"That's how it starts."
Mai sighed.
"Please stop helping the legend."
"I'm helping morale."
"You are helping misinformation."
"That's also morale."
Ace grabbed the box before the conversation could become any more ridiculous.
The group headed upstairs.
The safehouse felt exactly as it should.
Familiar.
Grounding.
Real.
The sort of place where mysteries were supposed to become smaller.
Instead the watch followed them inside.
That felt symbolic.
Ace disliked symbolic things.
Mai immediately connected her agent to the local network.
Reyes disappeared toward the kitchen.
Shammy settled onto the couch.
The evening unfolded naturally.
Almost normally.
Which lasted approximately seventeen minutes.
Then Rogue called.
Ace stared at the incoming contact.
The room noticed immediately.
"That's fast," Reyes said.
"Too fast," Mai agreed.
Ace answered.
Rogue appeared.
No greeting.
No small talk.
No wasted motion.
"Tomorrow."
Ace frowned.
"What tomorrow?"
"Client wants to meet."
The room became quiet.
Everybody understood who she meant.
The collector.
Finally.
"Where?" Ace asked.
Rogue's expression remained unreadable.
"Not Afterlife."
That got everyone's attention.
Rogue almost never left Afterlife for business.
Almost.
"He requested neutral ground."
Mai immediately looked suspicious.
"So did I."
"That's reassuring."
"It shouldn't be."
Fair.
Ace leaned back slightly.
"What kind of neutral ground?"
For the first time, Rogue actually looked annoyed.
"Gentleman's clubs."
Silence.
Reyes blinked.
Mai blinked.
Even Shammy looked surprised.
Ace stared.
Then:
"What?"
"Exactly."
Rogue rubbed the bridge of her nose.
"I spent fifteen minutes arguing with him."
"And?"
"He won."
"How?"
"He's paying."
Nobody could argue with that.
Night City had many laws.
Money outranked most of them.
Rogue continued.
"The place is called The Bellweather."
Mai was already searching.
Several results appeared.
Private membership.
Old money.
Extremely expensive.
Almost absurdly discreet.
The sort of establishment most Night City residents only heard about through rumors.
"Interesting," Mai said.
"That's one word for it."
"What's another?"
Rogue's expression flattened.
"Annoying."
The room collectively accepted that answer.
Ace looked at the wooden box resting on the table.
Then at Rogue.
Then back at the watch.
Everything about this situation kept becoming stranger in very specific ways.
Not dangerous.
Not yet.
Just...
strange.
"Tomorrow," Rogue repeated.
"Tomorrow."
The call ended.
The safehouse became quiet again.
For several seconds nobody spoke.
Then Reyes looked toward the box.
Then toward Ace.
Then toward the box again.
Ace already hated whatever she was about to say.
"Fancy club."
"No."
"Fancy rich collector."
"No."
"Historical watch."
"No."
"Fancy clothes."
"Absolutely not."
Reyes grinned.
The kind of grin that guaranteed future problems.
Mai sighed.
Shammy smiled.
And somewhere between the watch, the collector, and the world's most expensive private club, Ace suddenly realized tomorrow was going to be significantly more complicated than today's watch retrieval.
Which, considering today's watch retrieval, felt deeply unfair.
---
### Chapter 8
### The Eccentric Collector
The Bellweather did not advertise.
Which, in Night City, was itself a statement.
Every corporation advertised.
Every gang advertised.
Every nightclub, braindance studio, weapon manufacturer, noodle stand, ripperdoc, mercenary collective, and synthetic pet supplier advertised.
The Bellweather did not.
Its presence existed almost entirely through reputation.
And membership fees.
Very expensive membership fees.
Ace hated it on sight.
The building occupied three floors of restored pre-Collapse architecture squeezed improbably between modern corporate construction.
Dark stone.
Brass detailing.
Tall windows.
No visible security.
Which meant the security was probably excellent.
The valet took one look at the SUV and visibly struggled.
Reyes enjoyed this enormously.
The man recovered professionally.
Mostly.
"Welcome to The Bellweather."
His eyes drifted toward the vehicle again.
The ugly SUV sat among luxury imports worth more than most apartments.
It looked like somebody had accidentally parked a construction project in a jewelry store.
Reyes smiled.
A dangerous sign.
Ace immediately stepped on that conversation before it could begin.
"We're here for a meeting."
The valet nodded.
Relieved.
Business made sense.
The SUV did not.
"Of course."
He checked something.
Then immediately straightened.
"The collector is expecting you."
That sentence bothered Ace.
The collector.
Not a name.
Not a title.
Not an organization.
Almost like everyone involved had quietly agreed that one description was sufficient.
Inside, things became worse.
The lobby resembled a museum curated by somebody with unlimited money and questionable restraint.
Original artwork.
Historical firearms.
Antique furniture.
Rare books.
A mechanical clock occupying an entire wall.
Everything expensive.
Everything authentic.
Nothing flashy.
Which somehow made the wealth more obvious.
Mai was fascinated.
Reyes was suspicious.
Shammy looked mildly amused.
Ace wanted to leave.
Unfortunately the collector was upstairs.
A host guided them through several private corridors.
No music.
No crowds.
No obvious business activity.
The entire place felt designed for people who preferred privacy to attention.
Eventually they reached a set of double doors.
The host stopped.
Turned.
Smiled politely.
"The collector will see you now."
Then he left.
Ace immediately disliked that sentence too.
The doors opened inward.
The room beyond looked surprisingly ordinary.
A private dining room.
Bookshelves.
Large windows overlooking the city.
A table set for five.
Coffee already prepared.
No guards.
No assistants.
No visible security systems.
And seated at the far end of the table...
...was the collector.
For several seconds nobody spoke.
Because he wasn't what anyone expected.
Ace wasn't entirely sure what she had expected.
Ancient occultist.
Corporate executive.
Retired aristocrat.
Professional eccentric.
Something.
Instead the man looked almost disappointingly normal.
Mid-sixties.
Perhaps older.
Dark suit.
Silver hair.
Reading glasses.
Calm posture.
The sort of face people instinctively trusted.
Which immediately made Ace trust him less.
The man stood.
Smiled warmly.
Not performatively.
Genuinely.
"Miss Ace."
A nod.
"Miss Mai."
Another.
"Miss Shammy."
Then:
"Miss Reyes."
The smile widened slightly.
"I appreciate you accepting my invitation."
The room became very quiet.
Because the man somehow felt less like a criminal client and more like a university professor about to begin a lecture.
That was somehow worse.
The collector gestured toward the table.
"Please."
Nobody sat immediately.
The collector appeared unsurprised.
"I assure you."
His gaze drifted briefly toward the wooden box Ace carried.
"Had I wished to steal the watch, there were significantly easier methods."
Fair.
Annoyingly fair.
Eventually they sat.
The collector remained standing for a moment longer.
Studying the box.
Not greedily.
Not obsessively.
Just...
carefully.
Then he finally sat as well.
Silence settled briefly.
The city glowed beyond the windows.
The watch sat between them.
The collector looked at it.
And smiled.
The expression wasn't triumph.
Or relief.
Or satisfaction.
It looked much closer to recognition.
As if greeting an old acquaintance.
"Remarkable."
Nobody spoke.
The collector nodded toward the box.
"May I?"
Ace looked at him.
The collector waited patiently.
No pressure.
No expectation.
Just the question.
Eventually Ace opened the box and rotated it toward him.
The collector did not immediately touch the watch.
Instead he simply looked at it.
For several long seconds.
Then:
"Did he ask the question?"
Ace frowned.
"What question?"
The collector smiled.
"'Why twenty?'"
The room became quiet.
Nobody liked that.
The collector noticed immediately.
His smile widened slightly.
"Ah."
He leaned back.
"So he did."
Mai was already suspicious.
"How did you know?"
The collector seemed genuinely surprised.
"Because he always asks."
That answer somehow created more questions than it solved.
The collector finally lifted the watch.
Carefully.
Respectfully.
The gold surface reflected city lights from the windows.
Tiny flashes.
Gone immediately.
The collector examined it.
Then nodded once.
"Yes."
A pause.
Then:
"This is the correct one."
Nobody spoke.
Because nobody knew how to respond to that.
The collector looked up.
Immediately noticing the reaction.
His expression softened.
"My apologies."
He smiled.
"I realize that sounded strange."
"It did," Ace said.
The collector nodded.
"Fair."
Then he carefully returned the watch to the box.
No ritual.
No ceremony.
No supernatural nonsense.
Just careful handling.
The sort of care somebody might show a very old book.
Or a fragile photograph.
Or a piece of history.
The collector folded his hands.
The room waited.
Finally Mai spoke first.
"Why twenty?"
The collector smiled.
Not surprised.
Not evasive.
Almost pleased.
As if somebody had finally reached the correct chapter of a very long conversation.
Then he looked out across Night City.
The neon glow reflected faintly in the window glass.
And when he finally answered, his voice remained calm.
Measured.
Perfectly reasonable.
"I don't know."
Silence.
Ace stared.
Reyes stared.
Even Mai blinked.
The collector nodded.
"That tends to be the reaction."
The room became very quiet.
Because for the first time since this entire ridiculous affair began...
...everybody realized something.
The collector was searching too.
---
### Chapter 9
### One Down
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
The collector seemed entirely comfortable with that.
The silence wasn't awkward.
It wasn't defensive.
It wasn't somebody hiding information.
It felt more like a man waiting for other people to catch up to a conclusion he had reached years ago.
Eventually Reyes broke first.
"You don't know."
The collector nodded.
"I don't."
"You've spent how long doing this?"
"A little over twelve years."
Nobody at the table particularly liked that answer.
Twelve years.
The number settled heavily into the room.
Not because it was impressive.
Because it implied commitment.
The sort of commitment people usually reserved for religions, vendettas, or bad life decisions.
Sometimes all three.
Mai leaned forward slightly.
"Twelve years collecting these items."
"Yes."
"And you still don't know why there are twenty."
"No."
The collector smiled.
A small, self-aware smile.
"I know considerably more than I did twelve years ago."
"Such as?"
The collector looked at the watch.
Then at Mai.
"That there are twenty."
Not helpful.
Annoyingly honest.
But not helpful.
The collector seemed aware of this.
"My apologies."
He folded his hands.
"I should explain."
The room became quiet.
For the first time since entering The Bellweather, the collector appeared genuinely thoughtful.
Not mysterious.
Not dramatic.
Thoughtful.
Like a lecturer deciding where to begin.
"Several years ago I noticed a pattern."
Reasonable.
"A very small one."
Less reasonable.
The collector continued.
"A watch."
A glance toward the box.
"A book."
Another pause.
"A key."
Another.
"A silver cross."
Ace immediately thought of Madame Orlova's auction.
Interesting.
The collector noticed nothing.
Or pretended not to.
Hard to tell.
"Different countries."
"Different histories."
"Different owners."
The city lights glittered behind him.
Tiny reflections moving across the glass.
"Nothing connected them."
Mai frowned.
"But you believe they're connected."
"Yes."
"Why?"
The collector smiled.
A genuinely delighted smile.
The sort of expression professors wore when students finally asked the right question.
"Because I spent six years trying to prove they weren't."
Silence.
The answer landed immediately.
Because it was exactly the sort of thing a serious researcher would say.
Not:
> I believe.
But:
> I tried to disprove it.
And failed.
The collector leaned back.
"I hired historians."
Reasonable.
"Archivists."
Reasonable.
"Statisticians."
Interesting.
"Three anthropologists."
Very interesting.
"One theologian."
Now they were getting somewhere.
The collector nodded.
"They all reached different conclusions."
Of course they did.
"Yet every one of them eventually produced the same list."
The room became quiet.
Mai immediately understood.
"The twenty."
The collector pointed at her.
"Exactly."
Nobody spoke.
The city hummed softly beyond the windows.
Traffic lights moved far below.
The watch remained in its box.
Silent.
Patient.
The collector looked toward it again.
Not possessively.
Almost respectfully.
"As far as I can determine, there should be twenty."
Ace immediately latched onto the wording.
"Should?"
The collector smiled.
A dangerous word.
A very dangerous word.
"Yes."
"Should."
He seemed pleased she'd noticed.
"Not must."
"Not exactly."
"Should."
The room became quiet again.
Because nobody liked the distinction.
The collector continued.
"The difficulty is that I still don't understand why."
For the first time all evening, he sounded slightly frustrated.
Not much.
Just enough.
Human.
And somehow that made him more believable.
Not less.
Mai glanced toward the watch.
Then back toward the collector.
"How many have you recovered?"
Mai glanced toward the watch.
Then back toward the collector.
"How many have you recovered?"
The collector smiled.
A warm expression this time.
Almost embarrassed.
"Recovered?"
A small shake of his head.
"None."
The room became very quiet.
Ace frowned.
Reyes blinked.
Even Mai looked momentarily confused.
The collector noticed immediately.
Then laughed softly.
"I realize that sounds absurd."
"A little," Ace admitted.
The collector nodded.
"Fair."
He looked down at the watch.
The gold surface reflected city lights from the windows.
Tiny flashes.
Gone immediately.
"For twelve years I have been chasing stories."
Not objects.
Stories.
The distinction landed immediately.
The collector continued.
"References."
"Hints."
"Recurring legends."
"Ownership chains."
"Contradictory historical accounts."
His smile widened slightly.
"One theologian accused me of collecting folklore."
Reyes snorted.
"Was he wrong?"
"I paid him to answer that question."
"And?"
The collector spread his hands.
"He charged me a great deal of money and refused to commit."
Mai looked almost sympathetic.
Almost.
The collector leaned back.
"The problem is verification."
He nodded toward the watch.
"This."
A pause.
"This is verification."
Nobody spoke.
Because suddenly the room looked slightly different.
The watch looked slightly different.
The entire job looked slightly different.
The collector wasn't assembling a completed collection.
He wasn't sitting atop a vault full of mysterious artifacts.
He was standing at the beginning.
Not the end.
The realization somehow made him more interesting.
And more dangerous.
Because people willing to spend twelve years chasing a question rarely stopped after the first answer.
The collector seemed to read the thought from their faces.
Again.
He appeared annoyingly good at that.
"I know of nineteen others."
The room became quiet.
Not silent.
Interested.
A very different thing.
"Know?" Mai asked.
The collector nodded.
"Know."
Not have.
Not own.
Know.
"Some exist only in private records."
"Some appear in museum archives."
"Some exist entirely through inheritance documentation."
"One may not exist at all."
Ace immediately latched onto that.
"May not?"
The collector smiled.
"A surprising amount of history turns out to be rumor."
Fair.
"Unfortunately, the rumors keep repeating."
That was less fair.
The collector looked toward the watch again.
Then carefully closed the lid of the wooden box.
The click seemed louder than it should have.
"This watch is the first item I have personally verified."
The room became quiet once more.
Because that sentence changed everything.
Twelve years.
Hundreds of leads.
Countless records.
Researchers.
Historians.
Archivists.
And this...
This was the first thing he was willing to call real.
The collector folded his hands.
For the first time all evening, genuine excitement appeared beneath the calm professionalism.
Not obsession.
Not mania.
Excitement.
The excitement of a man who had finally found proof that he wasn't chasing ghosts.
"One down."
His smile widened.
Then he looked directly at Ace.
"Nineteen to go."
And suddenly the original contract felt significantly larger than a single watch.
---
### Chapter 10
### Friday the Thirteenth
Friday the Thirteenth arrived exactly when calendars claimed it would.
Which Ace considered deeply inconsiderate.
For the better part of a week, the watch had occupied an unreasonable amount of space inside the safehouse.
Not physically.
Physically it occupied less space than a toaster.
Mentally was another matter.
The wooden box had migrated between:
- a secure storage locker
- Mai's workbench
- a locked cabinet
- shared bedroom
- back to secure storage
Nobody had agreed to move it.
Nobody remembered moving it.
Nobody could prove they hadn't.
Mai had spent three evenings attempting to establish a chain of custody.
The chain of custody had surrendered.
Eventually.
Ace had found Mai staring at a whiteboard covered in arrows.
The arrows appeared to be losing.
Now, however, none of that mattered.
Because it was Friday.
And it was the thirteenth.
The Bellweather looked exactly the same as before.
Which somehow felt suspicious.
The same valet.
The same impossible wealth.
The same atmosphere of old money pretending not to notice itself.
The collector met them personally this time.
Waiting near the entrance.
Not inside.
Not seated.
Waiting.
That detail immediately caught Ace's attention.
The collector noticed.
Of course he did.
"Good evening."
"Collector."
His smile widened slightly.
"I was wondering when someone would call me that."
Ace shrugged.
"Fits."
"Possibly."
The collector's attention moved briefly toward the wooden box.
Then away again.
Not greedily.
Not impatiently.
Simply acknowledging its presence.
Like greeting a guest.
The five of them moved through the building together.
Not toward the dining room.
Not toward any office.
Instead the collector guided them deeper into the structure.
Several floors.
Private corridors.
Restricted elevators.
The sort of areas members probably never saw.
Eventually they reached a single reinforced door.
No guards.
No visible security systems.
Just a door.
The collector stopped.
Removed a key.
An actual key.
Brass.
Old.
Worn smooth from use.
Ace immediately hated how much she liked that detail.
The lock clicked.
The door opened.
And beyond it...
...was a room.
A normal room.
Almost painfully normal.
Soft lighting.
Dark wood shelving.
Climate control.
Carpet.
Glass display cases.
No occult symbols.
No ritual circles.
No eldritch architecture.
Nothing.
Just a room.
The collector stepped aside.
Allowing the others to enter first.
The room felt empty.
Because it was.
Nineteen display cases stood open.
Empty.
Waiting.
One stood closed.
Occupied.
The room became very quiet.
Nobody spoke.
The collector didn't interrupt.
He simply waited.
Because he already knew what they were seeing.
Twenty spaces.
Exactly twenty.
Mai slowly counted them.
Twice.
Then a third time.
Because she was Mai.
Twenty.
The collector finally spoke.
"I built this room eight years ago."
Ace turned.
"What?"
The collector nodded toward the display cases.
"Eight years."
Mai stared at him.
"You built the collection before you had any items."
"Yes."
The answer arrived without hesitation.
Without embarrassment.
Without apology.
Which somehow made it worse.
Ace folded her arms.
"That's insane."
The collector considered that carefully.
Then nodded.
"Quite possibly."
Fair.
Annoyingly fair.
The room remained silent.
The empty cases somehow dominated everything.
Not because they were dramatic.
Because they weren't.
The absence felt deliberate.
Planned.
Patient.
Like placeholders waiting for a future nobody fully understood.
The collector walked toward the final occupied case.
Not rushed.
Not theatrical.
Just calm.
The glass opened.
A soft mechanical click.
He turned toward Ace.
The wooden box remained in her hands.
For a moment neither moved.
Then Ace stepped forward.
Opened the box.
And lifted the watch.
The gold surface caught the room's lighting briefly.
A small flash.
Gone immediately.
The collector accepted it carefully.
Not reverently.
Not fearfully.
Respectfully.
The way somebody handled something old.
Something significant.
Something fragile.
The watch settled into the display case.
The collector closed the glass.
The lock clicked.
Silence followed.
Longer than expected.
Nobody knew what they were waiting for.
A sound.
A reaction.
A revelation.
Something.
Nothing happened.
Absolutely nothing.
The room remained exactly the same.
The watch remained exactly a watch.
The display case remained exactly a display case.
The collector studied it for several seconds.
Then smiled.
A small genuine smile.
The kind people wore when a long journey finally reached its first milestone.
Not the destination.
The first milestone.
He stepped back.
Hands folded behind him.
And quietly said:
"One down."
The room waited.
The collector looked around at the nineteen remaining empty spaces.
Then back toward the watch.
"Nineteen to go."
For the first time since this entire affair began...
...the number felt real.
---
### Chapter 11
### Questions
The room remained quiet.
Not because nobody had anything to say.
Because nobody quite knew where to begin.
Twenty display cases.
One occupied.
Nineteen empty.
The entire arrangement looked absurd.
The sort of thing that should have existed only inside the head of a conspiracy theorist with too much money and not enough supervision.
Yet here it was.
Built.
Maintained.
Waiting.
The collector appeared perfectly comfortable beneath the weight of that observation.
Which was perhaps the strangest thing in the room.
And there was a watch allegedly connected to Al Capone sitting three meters away.
Mai slowly walked along the nearest row of display cases.
Reading the small plaques beneath them.
Most were blank.
A few contained simple inventory numbers.
Nothing more.
No names.
No descriptions.
No clues.
The collector watched her progress.
Patiently.
Eventually she stopped.
One hand resting lightly against the glass of an empty case.
Then she turned.
"Why build the room first?"
There it was.
The collector smiled immediately.
Not because the question surprised him.
Because he had clearly been waiting for someone to ask it.
"A practical decision."
Ace stared.
"That's your answer?"
"Yes."
"It's a terrible answer."
The collector laughed softly.
Fair.
He accepted that.
"The less practical answer is that I became tired of moving goalposts."
Nobody spoke.
The collector continued.
"For years the collection existed entirely in notes."
Reasonable.
"Research."
Reasonable.
"Speculation."
Less reasonable.
"Arguments."
Very reasonable.
The collector glanced around the room.
At the empty cases.
At the shelves.
At the quiet space.
Then back toward the group.
"I wanted to make it real."
That answer landed considerably better.
Because everybody understood it.
Even Ace.
Especially Ace.
At some point every long project needed to become tangible.
Otherwise it remained a dream.
Or an obsession.
Often both.
Shammy slowly crossed the room.
Studying the empty spaces.
Not the occupied one.
The empty ones.
The collector noticed.
Again.
People who paid attention tended to notice Shammy eventually.
The truly observant noticed her immediately.
"You expected them to exist before you found proof."
The statement hung in the air.
The collector considered it carefully.
Then nodded.
"Yes."
Shammy looked around the room once more.
Twenty spaces.
Built years ago.
Waiting.
Patient.
A physical manifestation of belief.
Or madness.
Perhaps both.
"That's either faith or insanity."
The collector laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was accurate.
"I've spent twelve years attempting to determine which."
The answer settled over the room.
Nobody challenged it.
Because nobody was entirely sure themselves.
Reyes leaned against one of the display cases.
Arms folded.
Studying the collector.
"How much money?"
The collector blinked.
"Sorry?"
"How much money have you spent on this?"
The collector actually thought about it.
That worried everyone.
Because it suggested the answer might be very large.
After several seconds he sighed.
"Enough that I stopped calculating years ago."
Reyes pointed.
"See?"
The collector smiled.
"That is generally the reaction."
"Because that's insane."
"Also generally the reaction."
Mai pinched the bridge of her nose.
The conversation somehow made the entire project feel more rational and less rational simultaneously.
A remarkable achievement.
The collector walked toward the occupied display case.
The watch rested inside.
Silent.
Patient.
The first piece.
The first verified piece.
His expression softened slightly.
Not affection.
Recognition.
The same look he'd worn during their first meeting.
Like greeting an old acquaintance.
Ace noticed.
Of course she did.
"You're not collecting them."
The collector looked up.
Interested.
"Go on."
Ace pointed toward the watch.
Then the room.
Then the empty spaces.
"You don't care about owning them."
The collector's smile widened.
Only slightly.
But enough.
Interesting.
"That's not a question."
"No."
Ace folded her arms.
"It's an observation."
The collector nodded slowly.
Then looked back at the watch.
For several moments he said nothing.
When he finally spoke, his voice was softer.
More thoughtful.
"You may be correct."
The room became quiet.
Because that answer mattered.
The collector wasn't chasing wealth.
Wasn't chasing rarity.
Wasn't even chasing possession.
Whatever this was...
It sat somewhere else entirely.
And none of them could quite see it yet.
Outside, Night City glowed beyond the windows.
Traffic moved like rivers of light through the darkness.
The city never slept.
Never stopped.
Never waited.
This room did.
The collector looked around it once more.
Then toward the nineteen empty spaces.
A faint smile touched his face.
Not satisfaction.
Anticipation.
The difference was important.
"I suspect," he said quietly, "that the twentieth item will answer a question."
Ace immediately frowned.
The collector noticed.
"Only one?"
The smile widened.
"Possibly."
"That's a terrible return on investment."
The collector laughed.
A genuine laugh this time.
Warm.
Human.
Unexpected.
And for the first time since meeting him, the entire group understood something.
The collector wasn't hiding behind the mystery.
He was trapped inside it.
Just like everyone else.
The only difference was that he'd started asking the question twelve years earlier.
---
### Chapter 12
### The Second Question
The conversation should probably have ended there.
Nobody seemed particularly interested in ending it.
The collector poured coffee.
Actual coffee.
Not synth.
Not an approximation.
Not something marketed as "coffee-adjacent."
Coffee.
That alone explained several things about the membership fees.
Reyes accepted a cup.
Took one sip.
Then stared into it.
"What."
The collector looked amused.
"What?"
"This is actual coffee."
"Yes."
"Why?"
The collector blinked.
"Because I enjoy coffee."
Reyes looked genuinely offended.
"That's not an answer."
The collector sighed.
"The answer is money."
"Better."
The room relaxed slightly.
Not much.
Just enough.
The collector sat again.
The watch remained behind glass.
The first occupied space.
Still looking completely ordinary.
Mai was the first to break the quiet.
Again.
"Where did the list come from?"
There it was.
The question.
The one nobody had asked yet.
The collector's smile disappeared.
Not because he disliked the question.
Because he took it seriously.
A very different thing.
"I don't know."
Ace immediately pointed.
"That answer is becoming a theme."
"It is."
The collector accepted that without complaint.
Then he stood.
Walked toward a nearby bookshelf.
Removed a folder.
Returned.
Placed it carefully on the table.
The folder looked old.
Not antique.
Used.
Frequently.
The sort of object opened hundreds of times over many years.
The collector rested one hand atop it.
"This."
A pause.
"Is where the problem begins."
Nobody interrupted.
The folder opened.
Inside sat copies.
Photographs.
Notes.
Research records.
Fragments.
Bits and pieces.
The archaeology of an obsession.
The collector turned several pages.
Eventually stopping on a yellowed document.
A handwritten list.
Twenty entries.
No explanations.
No dates.
No descriptions.
Just names.
Object names.
Locations.
Occasionally a note.
Nothing more.
Mai immediately leaned closer.
The collector watched her.
Patiently.
"You found the original list."
"Not exactly."
The collector's finger tapped the page.
"The oldest version I found."
"Difference?"
"An important one."
He looked at the list.
For a moment his expression became distant.
Twelve years distant.
"The first version was discovered in an estate inventory."
Reasonable.
"After that I found another."
Also reasonable.
"Then another."
A pause.
"Then another."
The room became quiet.
Because everybody already knew what came next.
The collector nodded.
"Different countries."
"Different decades."
"Different owners."
"Same list."
There it was.
The problem.
Not that one list existed.
That several did.
The collector continued.
"Sometimes nineteen entries."
"Sometimes twenty-one."
"Usually twenty."
The room absorbed that.
Mai frowned.
That part bothered her.
Good.
It should.
"Copies?"
The collector shook his head.
"No."
"Translations?"
"No."
"Forgery?"
"No."
The collector smiled faintly.
"I paid several historians to suggest exactly that."
"And?"
"None of them could prove it."
The city lights shifted outside the windows.
Far below, Night City continued doing what Night City did best.
Ignoring mysteries until they exploded.
Inside the room, nobody spoke.
The collector carefully turned another page.
A photograph.
Old.
Poor quality.
Black and white.
A list.
Again.
Different handwriting.
Different paper.
Different source.
Same entries.
Mostly.
The collector pointed.
"That one came from Argentina."
Another page.
"France."
Another.
"Turkey."
Another.
"Japan."
Another.
"Chicago."
The room became quiet again.
Because the implication was obvious.
Somebody.
Somewhere.
At some point.
Had made this list.
And then history had scattered copies of it across the world.
The collector closed the folder.
Slowly.
Carefully.
The sound seemed louder than it should have.
Ace folded her arms.
A thought had been bothering her for several minutes.
Now she finally voiced it.
"What happens if the list is wrong?"
The collector smiled.
Immediately.
As if he had asked himself the same question thousands of times.
"Then I have wasted twelve years."
Fair.
"That's it?"
"No."
The collector looked toward the watch.
The first item.
The first proof.
The first crack in uncertainty.
Then he looked back at Ace.
"If the list is wrong..."
A pause.
A small smile.
"...then I will finally be free to stop."
The room became very quiet.
Because suddenly everyone understood something important.
The collector wasn't afraid of being wrong.
Part of him was hoping for it.
And that realization made the entire project feel a little less like obsession.
And a little more like burden.
Outside, neon reflected across the windows.
Inside, twenty display cases waited.
One occupied.
Nineteen empty.
And for the first time, Ace found herself wondering something she hadn't considered before.
Not:
What are the twenty items?
Not:
Who made the list?
Not:
What happens when the collection is complete?
Instead:
What would this man do if it wasn't?
And somehow that question felt every bit as strange.
---
### Chapter 13
### Departure
The folder eventually closed.
The coffee cooled.
The city continued glowing beyond the windows.
And for the first time since entering The Bellweather, the conversation began to wind down naturally.
Not because there were no more questions.
Quite the opposite.
There were too many.
The collector seemed aware of that.
Experienced with it, even.
People always arrived wanting answers.
They usually left carrying additional questions instead.
The collector appeared almost apologetic about the process.
Almost.
Reyes drained the last of her coffee.
Then pointed at him.
"You know what bothers me?"
The collector smiled.
"I suspect I'm about to find out."
"You've spent twelve years on this."
"Correct."
"You built a room."
"Correct."
"You hired historians."
"Several."
"You hired statisticians."
The collector sighed.
"Unfortunately."
"And yet somehow you still sound surprised by everything."
The collector laughed.
A genuine laugh.
Warm.
Unexpected.
Then he looked around the room.
At the empty display cases.
At the watch.
At the shelves.
At the folder.
At twelve years of work condensed into one carefully maintained space.
When he finally answered, his voice was quieter.
More honest.
"Because every time I think I understand something..."
A small pause.
"...the collection disagrees."
Nobody spoke.
Because that answer felt true.
Not just about the collection.
About life in general.
The collector stood.
The movement subtle.
A signal.
The evening was ending.
Mai immediately noticed.
Of course she did.
The collector walked toward the occupied display case.
The watch remained exactly where it belonged now.
Or at least where he believed it belonged.
The distinction felt increasingly important.
For several seconds he simply looked at it.
Then:
"Thank you."
The room became quiet.
Not because gratitude was unexpected.
Because it sounded genuine.
No performance.
No manipulation.
No hidden agenda.
Just gratitude.
The collector turned back toward them.
"I realize this assignment was unusual."
Ace snorted.
"Unusual."
"Fair."
The collector accepted the correction.
Then smiled.
"I suspect the next one will be stranger."
The room froze.
Immediately.
The collector noticed.
Again.
The smile widened slightly.
"That was not a request."
"Good."
Ace pointed.
"Because I'm not agreeing yet."
The collector laughed.
"I wouldn't expect you to."
Fair.
The group slowly began moving toward the door.
Nobody seemed particularly eager to leave.
Which surprised Ace.
A few hours ago she would have described the collector as:
- rich
- eccentric
- suspicious
Now she would probably add:
- irritating
- intelligent
- honest
That last one bothered her most.
Because honest people were difficult.
Liars followed rules.
Honest people followed convictions.
The collector opened the door for them personally.
No assistants.
No staff.
No security escort.
Just the man himself.
The hallway beyond stood empty.
Quiet.
Private.
The Bellweather seemed to exist in its own pocket of reality.
A place where Night City's chaos arrived only by invitation.
As they stepped through the doorway, the collector spoke again.
One final thought.
Almost casually.
"Miss Mai."
Mai stopped.
The collector's expression had changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
More serious.
"I will send you a copy of something."
Mai frowned.
"What?"
The collector considered the answer.
Then smiled.
"A discrepancy."
That got everyone's attention.
Immediately.
The collector seemed pleased.
"One of the twenty items appears on every version of the list."
Reasonable.
"Except one."
The room became very quiet.
The collector continued.
"One version replaces it with something else."
Mai's eyes narrowed.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
The collector nodded.
"Exactly."
Ace sighed.
"No."
The collector looked innocent.
A terrible sign.
"No?"
"No mystery breadcrumbs while we're leaving."
The collector actually looked disappointed.
Then laughed.
"I'll try to do better next time."
"You won't."
"No."
Fair.
The elevator carried them downward.
The lobby passed.
The valet appeared.
The city waited outside.
Bright.
Loud.
Alive.
Normal.
Or at least as normal as Night City ever became.
The SUV waited where they'd left it.
Reyes climbed into the driver's seat.
Shammy settled into the rear.
Mai immediately opened a new research file.
Ace wasn't surprised.
The engine started.
The Bellweather slowly disappeared into traffic behind them.
For several minutes nobody spoke.
Then:
Mai.
Naturally.
"The discrepancy."
Ace groaned.
Reyes laughed.
Shammy smiled.
And somewhere behind them, inside a quiet room hidden within The Bellweather, a gold pocket watch rested alone in the first of twenty display cases.
One space occupied.
Nineteen still waiting.
The collection had finally begun.
And none of them were entirely sure whether that was a good thing.