Search History And Sushi

Kane watched Isabelle leave, her warning hanging in the air like frost.

He slumped against the counter, tail twitching nervously beneath his tailored pants.

Being undercover had always meant walking a tightrope, but this assignment felt like crossing Niagara Falls on dental floss.

He finished his coffee in three quick gulps and tossed the cup into the recycling bin.

The karmic bond tugged faintly in his chest—Cyrus had moved.

Kane poked his head out of the pantry, glancing down the hallway toward the executive offices.

Through the glass walls, he could see that Cyrus's chair sat empty, his computer still running.

Ears perked, Kane caught the distant sound of Cyrus's voice from around a corner.

The dragon paced at the far end of the corridor, phone pressed to his ear, his back to Kane.

Perfect timing.

Kane slipped down the hallway, footsteps silent against the polished floor. He reached Cyrus's office and slid inside, shutting the door with barely a click.

Then he hurried back to his office, a modest space adjacent to Cyrus's grand chamber.

He settled into his chair, the leather creaking beneath him as he powered up his computer.

His fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up search engines and specialized spirit databases.

He tried every combination he could think of—"Midnight Chalice history," "Western Courts artifacts," "soul-binding relics"—but each search yielded nothing substantial.

Academic journals offered only passing references. Folklore sites contained contradictory myths.

One thread on an obscure forum claimed the chalice had been destroyed centuries ago.

Kane leaned back, rubbing his temples. The screen glared back at him, full of dead ends and speculation.

He tapped his claws against the desk in frustration. The human internet had failed him, as expected, but the disappointment stung nonetheless.

Kane glanced at the door, confirming it remained closed, then pulled up a secure browser.

The Bureau's archive system required three-factor authentication: password, biometric scan, and a rotating security token.

Kane pressed his thumb against the screen, wincing at the small magical prick that drew a drop of his blood for verification.

The familiar blue-green interface of the Bureau's restricted archives appeared. Kane typed "Midnight Chalice" into the search field and hit enter.

A progress wheel spun lazily as the system searched centuries of supernatural records.

Just as the first results began populating—a promising collection of ancient scrolls and testimonials—his phone buzzed against the desk.

Kane glanced down. Ginsei.

He picked up the phone and scanned Ginsei's text, the usual blend of false concern and fishing for information.

"Heard you're playing secretary now. Suits you. Any actual progress or just fetching coffee?"

Kane snorted, shaking his head at the transparent attempt to extract intel.

Typical Ginsei—always probing for weaknesses while maintaining that perfectly composed facade.

He glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, taking in the breathtaking city view from fifty-nine stories up.

The skyline stretched before him, buildings gleaming in the afternoon light, the bay shimmering in the distance.

With a smirk, Kane angled his phone to capture the panoramic vista, making sure to include his sleek desk and the edge of his leather chair in the frame.

He snapped the picture and sent it with a simple caption:

"Just another day at the office. Views aren't bad."

He added a coffee cup emoji as a final touch of smugness, knowing it would get under Ginsei's scales.

The white serpent had been stuck in the same windowless bureau office for years despite his elite status.

Kane set the phone down, satisfaction warming his chest as he turned back to the Bureau archives.

Let Ginsei stew in his jealousy for a while.

The Bureau's archives revealed ancient testimonials about the Midnight Chalice—its forging in dragon fire and its use in binding powerful spirits to ancient pacts.

Kane's eyes widened at illustrations depicting the chalice: obsidian-black with silver runes that seemed to shift as if alive.

One scroll, translated from Old Spirit, described how the chalice "binds souls together in ways that transcend physical laws."

Another mentioned its ability to "transform a debt into strength, hatred into loyalty."

Kane glanced at his chest, where the karmic seal pulsed beneath his shirt. The implications made his fur stand on end.

His throat went dry. Could this artifact… alter the bond?

A third document, badly damaged, contained fragments about the chalice's disappearance during the fall of the Western Courts.

The guardian spirit who'd taken it had fled to a hidden sanctuary known only to a select few.

Kane sighed, leaning back. There was a wealth of lore, yet there was no concrete information about its current location.

Kane's stomach rumbled loudly, protesting the hours since breakfast. He glanced at the time—past noon already.

His phone buzzed with Ginsei's reply: "Nice view. Enjoying my fatty tuna and unagi while you play fetch with the dragon. Hope he at least feeds you between tricks."

The message was accompanied by a pristine photo of an elaborate sushi spread, perfectly arranged on black lacquered plates.

Kane rolled his eyes but felt his mouth water involuntarily. The mention of fish triggered something in his memory.

Mochi.

The troublesome cat spirit ran that magical odds-and-ends shop downtown—"Mochi's Miscellanea"—and had his paws in every shady spirit deal in the city.

If anyone had dirt on artifact trafficking in the spirit underground, it was Mochi—the city's most unreliable reliable informant.

If he named his price in tuna, Kane would gladly pay it.

Kane closed the Bureau archives and opened his messaging app. He typed quickly:

"I need info on a rare artifact. Willing to pay. Lunch on me?"

He hesitated before adding: "Fish included."

He added a fish emoji, knowing it would catch Mochi's attention faster than anything else.

The reply came almost instantly:

"Is Agent Ashwood reaching out to little old me? Meet at Sakura Sushi in 30."

Just then, footsteps approached—steady, measured, unmistakable.

Kane's ears flicked toward the sound as adrenaline surged through him.

With practiced speed, he closed the Bureau archives, the secure connection terminating with a soft digital chirp.

He pocketed his phone and swiveled his chair toward the door just as it opened.

Cyrus stood in the doorway, one hand on the handle, red eyes sweeping the room.

His tailored suit jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a crimson vest that matched his eyes.

"We're heading out for lunch," Cyrus announced, his gaze lingering on Kane's computer screen, now displaying innocuous email templates.