Oscar should have left the warehouse the moment he secured what he came for, but instinct had never been something he ignored easily. It tugged at him now with the same familiar pressure that had guided him through bad neighborhoods, worse deals, and situations that should have ended far more poorly than they did. He moved farther toward the back, boots quiet against the worn floor, eyes tracking the edges of the dim illumination ahead.
A single desk sat within the reach of the light, positioned plainly and without ceremony. Several sealed products were stacked near one corner, while the rest of the surface was buried beneath loose paperwork. Pages overlapped each other in uneven layers, some creased and others marked with ink notations.
An ashtray rested near the center, holding the remains of a rolled blunt that had been pressed out rather than fully burned, suggesting the worker had stepped away mid-task instead of finishing it properly.
Oscar stopped short, staring at the scene longer than he intended.
The papers were not random. His eyes picked up patterns immediately, figures aligned in columns, headings marking trade routes, territory boundaries, and funding allocations. He felt a crooked sense of disbelief settle in as the reality sank in.
Even criminals had to do paperwork.
The thought amused him more than it should have, and a quiet, incredulous breath slipped from his nose as he shook his head. He imagined, briefly and vividly, a future where he ran his own operation without ledgers or endless meetings. In that imagined version of things, there were no cramped desks or ashtrays full of forgotten habits, only open roads, shared profits, and nights that ended in laughter instead of exhaustion.
The fantasy nearly rooted him in place.
Oscar caught himself before it went any further, lifting both hands and lightly slapping his cheeks as if to physically knock sense back into his skull. He muttered his own name under his breath, reminding himself that indulgence was dangerous in places like this. His gaze flicked past the desk toward the darker stretch beyond, checking once more for any sign that he was no longer alone.
Nothing stirred.
He exhaled slowly and returned his attention to the desk, scanning it with renewed focus.
That was when something stood out.
A rectangular black box sat slightly apart from the clutter, positioned with deliberate care. Its surface was smooth and unremarkable at first glance, but thin golden etchings traced subtle patterns along its edges, decorative enough to imply importance without drawing attention. It did not belong among scattered papers and half-finished work.
Oscar smiled faintly as he reached for it.
He lifted the box and turned it in his hands, weighing it thoughtfully. The metal felt solid and cool, its balance carefully crafted. His eyes settled on the lock, and he studied it with professional interest. The mechanism was a reinforced padlock, engraved with matching golden designs that did nothing to compromise its integrity. It was not ornamental security meant to scare amateurs. It was practical, sturdy, and confident.
The box itself was only slightly larger than a jewelry case, but its weight suggested contents of consequence. Folded documents would fit neatly inside, as would a compact stack of currency. Oscar considered both possibilities, his mind already calculating potential worth and risk.
More money would never hurt him.
His hand drifted instinctively toward his bag of holding, only for him to remember that it was already near capacity. The box would not fit unless he removed something else, and for a moment he seriously considered setting it back down and walking away.
Then his intuition screamed.
The sensation struck him sharply, an almost physical pressure in his guts that made his breath hitch. He closed his eyes briefly, recognizing the feeling for what it was. Every time he ignored that inner warning, the consequences followed swiftly and without mercy.
Oscar sighed softly, accepting that he was about to make his life more complicated yet again.
He muttered a quiet curse at himself for not bringing lockpicking tools, blaming haste and overconfidence in equal measure.
Magic would have to do, even though it was never his preferred solution.
Spellwork had always resisted him. It was not that he lacked intelligence or discipline.
He could read and speak the common language fluently, negotiate deals, and navigate contracts with ease.
Magical script, however, refused to settle into meaning no matter how long he studied it. The symbols twisted and blurred in his mind, refusing to align into something usable.
In the human regions of the Cerulean Girdle, that weakness had been compounded by prejudice. As a dark half-elf, he had endured suspicion that closed doors before he ever reached them. Teachers were rare, patience rarer still.
Until Colorada'Sierra.
Stephanie had been different. She had taught him the fundamentals without judgment, breaking concepts down until they made sense. Even now, using magic the way she taught him felt unnatural, like forcing his hands into a shape they resisted.
Necessity overruled discomfort.
Oscar centered himself, slowing his breathing as he whispered the incantation for Pyra. The syllables felt awkward on his tongue, but he shaped them carefully, focusing on intention rather than perfection. A spark bloomed into existence, then a jet of fire no larger than an adult fingernail, trembling slightly as he guided it toward the internal seams of the lock.
He worked slowly, applying heat in controlled increments. Sweat gathered at his temples as minutes dragged on, his jaw tightening with every second he remained exposed. He resisted the urge to rush, knowing impatience would ruin everything.
Eventually, the internal components softened enough to fail.
The lock dropped onto the desk with a muted metallic sound, and Oscar allowed himself a thin, satisfied smile.
"I might complain about magic constantly, but it still seems willing to cooperate when it truly matters," Oscar murmured quietly, relief threading through his voice.
He opened the box.
At first glance, it contained nothing but paper, and his excitement dimmed for a brief, disappointed moment. That feeling vanished almost immediately when his eyes scanned the first page, then the next. Certain words stood out clearly enough that even his limited familiarity could not mistake them.
Formulas.
Alchemical ratios.
Refinement processes.
Oscar's pulse quickened as recognition set in. These were terpene formulas, the product of extensive research and refinement. For cultivators, terpenes shaped everything from potency to flavor, altering effects and creating signature profiles that defined entire operations.
In the black market, such formulas were priceless.
People had been killed for less.
Oscar carefully lifted the stack of documents from the box, already deciding which pages he would commit to memory first, when something cold pressed firmly against the back of his head.
He froze instantly.
The sensation was unmistakable. A hard iron cylinder rested against his skull, steady and deliberate. Oscar did not turn around. He did not breathe. His hands remained exactly where they were as a deep voice spoke close behind him.
"Remain exactly where you are, because the moment you decide to test my patience will also be the moment this conversation ends very poorly for you," the voice said in a controlled, even tone.
Heat flooded Oscar's spine as sweat broke out across his back. He swallowed carefully and spoke without moving, forcing calm into every syllable.
"I want to be very clear that I have no intention of testing anyone's patience, especially not in a situation where the margin for error is so violently narrow," Oscar said evenly.
The pressure at the back of his head did not change.
The man behind him shifted slightly, close enough that Oscar could sense the movement rather than hear it. The voice returned, unhurried and sharp.
"You are holding documents that do not belong to you, and you are standing somewhere you were never invited to be," the man said quietly. "You are going to explain yourself very carefully, because I dislike surprises when firearms are involved."
Oscar inhaled slowly, choosing his words with care.
"My name is Oscar, and I am not affiliated with your organization or anyone who answers to it," he said steadily. "I came looking for supplies and found something that clearly represents months, if not years, of careful work, which speaks volumes about the professionalism of whoever commissioned it."
Silence stretched between them.
The gun remained pressed to his head, unwavering, as the man considered his response.
"That explanation suggests familiarity with things you should not recognize so easily," the man said at last, suspicion threading through his tone. "People who understand the value of those documents rarely stumble upon them by accident."
Oscar resisted the urge to tense, keeping his posture neutral.
"Survival has a way of teaching people what matters, even when formal education fails them," Oscar replied calmly. "Anyone who has navigated black markets long enough learns to recognize a magnum opus when it is placed directly in front of them."
The man exhaled slowly behind him.
"Your confidence is either admirable or deeply misplaced," the voice said. "I have not yet decided which."
Oscar allowed himself a thin, humorless smile that the man could not see.
"That uncertainty is probably mutual," Oscar said evenly.
The pressure of the gun remained, and the silence that followed felt heavy with implication.