Zane stepped out of the taxi, the humid night air clinging to his skin. The Abandoned Docks of Red Hook, Brooklyn stretched before him, silent and eerie under the dim glow of streetlights. The smell of salt, rusting metal, and faint traces of gasoline lingered in the air. In the distance, he could hear the occasional creak of an old boat shifting in the water.
Checking his watch, he noted that it was already 8 PM. He adjusted his coat and made his way toward The Rusty Anchor, a rundown bar James had mentioned in his letter. The entrance was a narrow door wedged between two crumbling buildings, the faded neon sign above flickering inconsistently.
As he stepped inside, the scent of cheap alcohol and unwashed bodies hit him immediately. The place was dimly lit, its wooden floor sticky from years of spilled drinks and neglect. A few men hunched over their drinks at the bar, murmuring amongst themselves, while others sat at the rickety tables, engaged in quiet conversations or a lazy game of poker.
Zane scanned the room, his sharp eyes assessing every detail. A low-end bar, just as expected. Nothing about it stood out—except for the fact that a certain beggar frequented it, a man who had unknowingly witnessed a glimpse of the magical world.
He approached the bartender, a burly man with a scruffy beard and a cigarette tucked behind his ear. His apron was stained, and his expression spoke of a man long tired of serving drunks.
Zane leaned on the counter, keeping his voice low. "I'm looking for a guy named Mike. Heard he's a regular here."
The bartender raised a brow but didn't seem too surprised. "Mike? Yeah, I know him. Crazy bastard never shuts up. Always ranting about some weird shit—government conspiracies, ghosts, magic." He let out a short laugh. "Nobody takes him seriously. But yeah, he usually shows up after 9 PM."
Zane nodded and slipped a $100 bill across the counter. "Let me know the moment he arrives."
The bartender smirked, pocketing the money without hesitation. "No problem. You waiting over there?" He gestured to the corner booth.
"Yeah. And bring me a beer."
Settling into his seat, Zanesteps. He couldn't rely entirely on this Mike character. A beggar's memory was unreliable at best, and even if he had seen something, his recollection would likely be fragmented.
That meant one thing took a slow sip of the drink when it arrived, his mind already working through the next —he needed to go to MACUSA's jurisdiction. If an organization was targeting magical children, the Magical Congress of the United States of America would have records of unusual disappearances, even if they weren't publicly acknowledged. But first, he would see what Mike had to say.
Time passed slowly. The clock above the bar ticked away as drunken patrons came and went. Then, at 9:15 PM, Zane spotted a waiter approaching his table. The man subtly nodded toward a figure slouched at the bar.
"That's your guy."
Zane followed his gaze and observed the man. Mike was in his late fifties, his gray hair matted and tangled, a patchy beard covering his face. His clothes were an assortment of old jackets layered on top of one another, barely concealing his thin frame. His hands, covered in grime, trembled slightly as he reached for his drink. His eyes, bloodshot and sunken, darted around nervously—as if he were always expecting something to jump out at him.
Zane took another $100 bill from his pocket and handed it to the waiter. "Get him to meet me behind the bar. Tell him I owe him money."
The waiter hesitated for a moment before shrugging. "If money's involved, he'll come." He took the bill and walked off.
Zane finished his beer, left another bill on the table, and exited through the back door. The alley behind the bar was damp and smelled of rotting wood and stale beer. A single flickering streetlamp cast long shadows along the cracked pavement.
After five minutes, Mike stumbled toward him, his gait unsteady, his eyes filled with curiosity and greed.
"You Mike?" Zane asked, watching him closely.
Mike squinted, rubbing his eyes as if trying to focus. "Yeah, that's me. You said I owed you money?"
Zane had already begun using Legilimency, sifting through the layers of the man's chaotic thoughts. Flickers of images passed by—garbage-strewn alleys, long nights of hunger, drunken conversations with strangers.
"Not owed. I wanted to pay you for something."
Mike's eyes gleamed with interest. "Oh? And how much are we talking about?"
"Depends on what you tell me."
Mike's grin widened. "Then the price just went up."
Zane nodded. "Fine."
He dug deeper into Mike's memories, past the layers of disjointed thoughts, until he found the moment he was looking for—the night of the magical fight. The image sharpened in his mind.
A dark alleyway near the docks. Two men, cloaked in shadows, engaged in a brief but violent duel. Flashes of red and blue light, sparks scattering across the wet pavement. The fight ended abruptly as they exchanged hushed words—partners, not enemies. Then, a girl's muffled scream. She was young, no older than eleven or twelve, her face partially obscured by the dim light. The two men vanished, disapparating with the girl.
Zane focused harder, pushing past Mike's unreliable memory. A symbol flashed for a brief second—a dagger entwined with a serpent—before everything went blank.
With a final push, Zane extracted the exact location of the event.
His job was done.
Mike groaned, shaking his head. "Damn, I can't remember shit right now."
"You don't need to."
Before Mike could respond, Zane discreetly cast Obliviate.
Mike's eyes glazed over, and he blinked, confused. He now remembered nothing about magic or Zane—just that a stranger had paid him back an old debt.
Zane slipped a thousand-dollar bill into Mike's coat pocket and left him standing there, dazed.
Re-entering the bar, he approached the bartender one last time. "Thanks for your help. Have a drink on me." He slid another bill across the counter.
As the bartender grinned and reached for a glass, Zane discreetly added a small dose of The Forgetfulness Potion into his drink. Within an hour, he'd forget their conversation completely.
Satisfied, Zane stepped out into the night and hailed a taxi.
By the time he returned to Anna's house, it was already 11 PM. The lights were off—she wasn't back yet. Exhausted, he took off his coat, lay on the couch, and closed his eyes for a short rest.
Tomorrow, he would dig deeper into MACUSA's records.
This wasn't just a random kidnapping.
Something bigger was happening.