Bait the Flame

The crowd of the Noir Emporium had returned to its usual rhythm—smuggling deals whispered over tea, gears traded for vials of glowing power, bounty hunters sharpening weapons with quiet grins.

But above the noise, in a shadowed alley behind the rune market, Hugo stood still—Spiral Wonder humming faintly at his side.

His red eyes were locked on the scratched words burned into his mind:

"Second Flame.""Phoenix Seller."

He closed his eyes.

The corpse—precisely killed.The rune—missing.The phoenix-marked coin—left behind.

The man hadn't been a random buyer. He was a messenger, Hugo thought. A link in a chain. He wasn't buying the rune for himself. He was passing it on.

Which meant… the real buyer was still waiting.

And "Second Flame" wasn't just a phrase. It was a signal—a code passed between black market runners working with the Ashblood Wings.

"A second drop," Hugo muttered. "There's going to be another trade."

He turned sharply, coat flaring as he walked back through the Emporium toward the lounge where Vex waited.

Minutes Later, Noir Emporium Backroom

Vex blinked as Hugo reentered without knocking.

"I take it the lightning worked," the informant said smoothly. "Judging by the scorch marks on your coat."

"I found two keywords," Hugo replied without preamble. "Second Flame and Phoenix Seller. The buyer was a runner. There's going to be another drop soon. I want to set a trap."

Vex leaned back in his chair. "And here I thought you'd ask nicely."

"I don't need to be nice. I need bait."

"Expensive bait," Vex said, smirking. "You're talking about luring a phantom rune dealer. That's not your average back-alley mugging."

"I don't need the real thing," Hugo replied. "Just the rumor that one's for sale. Spread word that a Gearwright defector is selling an unregistered Phantom Rune—one stolen from an old war vault."

Vex arched an eyebrow. "Spicy."

"Make it sound real enough to draw attention," Hugo said. "And let the word reach the right ears."

"You're hoping your phoenix friends bite," Vex murmured.

"I'm not hoping," Hugo said, turning away. "I'm counting on it."

Back in Flywheel City, afternoon rain tapped gently against the windows of Hugo's apartment.

Inside, the children were sprawled across the modest living space—bored.

Steven sat on the floor surrounded by mechanical scraps he'd found in Hugo's junk bin, fiddling with a tiny gear-driven bird.

Jack paced near the window, arms crossed. "He said he was just going to talk to someone. That was this morning. It's almost dinner."

"Maybe he's in trouble," Rae said, flipping through a fashion magazine she definitely didn't buy.

Christopher didn't look up from the small stack of detective journals on Hugo's bookshelf. "He told us he'd be back tonight. And it's not that late."

"Still," Eva said softly from the couch, "he is hiding something."

That quiet sentence made them all look up.

Steven blinked. "You think so too?"

Eva nodded. "Ever since Copperpoint… Hugo's always looking over his shoulder. Like someone's chasing him."

Jack frowned. "Well, if someone is, they better hope Hugo doesn't find them first."

"That's not the point," Rae said. "The point is, he won't tell us anything. About who killed everyone, about the phoenix marks, about—about what any of it means!"

Christopher closed his journal slowly. "We could wait… or we could try to figure something out ourselves."

Jack's eyes lit up.

"No," Christopher added quickly. "Not follow him. But maybe we can check his files."

Rae crossed her arms. "Didn't he say don't go into his room?"

Jack smirked. "He said don't break anything."

"That's not the same and you know it," Eva murmured.

But curiosity had already taken root.

Steven looked up from his tinkering. "If we do this… we have to be careful. Quiet. No touching anything glowing or leaking, especially if it's humming."

Christopher nodded. "Let's not dig too deep. Just see if he's working on anything connected to the phoenix symbol. Maybe a case file. A note. A clue."

Jack grinned. "So we're investigating the greatest detective in Astear?"

"Technically," Christopher said, "we're investigating what he won't tell us."

Steven looked down at the bird he had built. It chirped once, flapped its little wings—and exploded into smoke.

They all stared.

"…We're doomed," Eva whispered.

The children stood before Hugo's bedroom door like it was a vault to the Undergears themselves.

"Locked," Christopher whispered, testing the brass handle. "Of course it's locked."

"Leave it to me," Steven said, stepping forward and pulling a small folding tool from his pocket—one he'd made from leftover gear scraps. "Jacob used to sneak into locked rooms at the orphanage all the time. He taught me how."

After a moment of tinkering, there was a satisfying click.

The door creaked open.

Hugo's room was… meticulously clean. Dark wood shelves, rows of books, an organized desk with several rune-enhanced filing cabinets. One corner held a glass case for Spiral Wonder, currently empty. A faint hum came from a rune-charged fan overhead.

Christopher moved first, going straight to the cabinet. "Start with the case files."

Steven and Eva stayed close, wary. Rae was the first to step toward a pinned corkboard.

Dozens of notes. Pictures. Crime scenes.

But at the center, like a dark sun, was a photo: Jacob Arc—smiling, goggles on his head, hands blackened with grease.

And next to it: the same phoenix mark scorched into flesh.

Rae swallowed. "That's the same… as in Copperpoint."

Christopher opened a drawer and pulled out a folder labeled simply:

"ARC-37 — Jacob Arc / Phoenix Mark Analysis"

Inside were rough notes. Medical sketches. Descriptions of the rune pattern. A sentence circled several times:

"Not branded—carved by rune transference. Intentional. Personal. Ritualistic."

Steven read aloud the next note:

"No known affiliation. No motive. No public group matching this symbol in Astear criminal records. Must be deep underground. Possibly organized. Possibly religious."

And below that:

"If this is what I think it is… Jacob died not because of what he did, but because of what he discovered."

They were silent for a long moment.

Then—

click.

The front door opened.

The children scrambled, slamming the file closed and darting out of the room. Christopher barely managed to relock the door before they slid into the living room and sat, stiff and still, as Hugo stepped inside.

His coat was soaked. Spiral Wonder hung at his side.

He looked at them.

Then at the bookshelf.

Then at the faint smell of burned oil from Steven's earlier attempt at repair.

"You went into my room," he said plainly.

Jack opened his mouth. "We didn't mean—"

"I didn't say I was angry," Hugo interrupted. "Just disappointed. And not surprised."

He sighed, moving past them to his office.

The children looked at each other—guilty but curious.

Meanwhile, Back at Noir Emporium…

Word of the "phantom rune sale" spread like wildfire through the cracks of the Noir Emporium.

In a velvet-lined tea den above the west wing, beneath copper lanterns and polished mirrors, a veiled woman in obsidian black sat alone—her posture perfect, her cup untouched.

Whispers drifted in from the market floor below.

"Second Flame...""Unregistered Phantom Rune...""Vault relic, pre-war era... Gearwright seal cracked..."

The woman did not flinch. Her fingers drummed the table rhythmically—two beats, a pause, one beat.

She leaned slightly to the side, murmuring to a device disguised as a pocketwatch:

"Target has taken the bait. Arc is moving faster than expected."

Her voice was cool. Measured. Deadly.

She shut the watch.

"Lady selene," a man nearby whispered, bowing his head without looking at her. "Shall we interfere?"

Selene Veyra finally took a sip of her tea. Still hot.

"No," she said. "Not yet."

"Why?"

Her answer came like a blade sliding through velvet.

"Because now," she whispered, "I want to see what he does when the fire burns back."

She stood and vanished into the smoke, leaving her tea untouched.

The skies over Flywheel City had darkened into a deep copper hue by the time Hugo returned to his apartment.

Rain clinked faintly on the iron windowpanes. The quiet hum of gears pulsing from streetlamps gave the streets their usual haunting glow.

He had barely turned the key in his door when a voice stopped him.

"You're harder to catch than a steam hawk in an engine storm."

Melissa Morgan stepped from the shadows of the stairwell, coat slick from the rain, her eyes sharp as ever. She wasn't smiling.

Hugo didn't look surprised. "Should've known you'd sniff out a story."

"I'm not here to publish it—yet." She crossed her arms. "I just want to know what the hell happened in Copperpoint."

He didn't answer. Not right away.

"So it's true," she muttered. "Everyone's dead. Mayor's daughter survived. With four others."

"They were lucky," Hugo said quietly. "Or unlucky, depending on how you look at it."

Melissa's voice dropped, cutting.

"And you didn't tell them anything."

He finally met her eyes.

"I told them what they needed to know to stay alive."

Melissa shook her head, brushing her soaked hair back behind one ear. "They're kids, Hugo. But they're not stupid. They've seen death now. They deserve the truth."

"They deserve peace," he said flatly. "And peace doesn't come from knowing how the world really works."

Her voice sharpened.

"You talk a lot about truth. You wear it like a badge. But for someone who claims to value it, you're damn good at keeping it from the people who deserve it the most."

He didn't respond. Couldn't.

Melissa gave him one last glance—this one filled with more hurt than anger.

"I don't know who you're protecting, Hugo," she said. "Them… or yourself."

Then she turned and left down the stairs, her footsteps echoing into the steam-kissed dark.

Inside the apartment, Hugo hung his coat and loosened his scarf. The lights were dim. The children were asleep—he could hear Rae's soft snoring from the couch.

He walked into the small kitchen, poured himself a cup of black coffee, and stood at the window.

In the reflection, he caught a glimpse of Jacob's old photo—taped beside a tiny gear-driven clock they'd built as kids.

He stared at it.

And for the first time in a long time, he doubted his silence.

Later that night, Hugo stood alone in his office, the room dim save for the flickering glow of his rune lamp.

A soft knock echoed from the window.

He didn't flinch.

Sliding the window open, he found Vex crouched on the fire escape, chewing the end of a toothpick, rain dripping from the brim of his oilskin hat.

"You like sneaking up on people, don't you?" Hugo asked.

"It's a lifestyle," Vex said, stepping in and shaking off the rain. "Besides, you're harder to reach through the front door lately. Guess the kids don't take messages."

Hugo didn't respond.

Vex pulled a sealed envelope from his coat. "It worked."

Hugo's eyes narrowed. "They bought the bait?"

"No... they bit it. Word spread. Someone made contact with my decoy seller about an hour ago." He dropped the envelope on the desk. "Midnight. South End. Forgotten dock near the old smokestacks."

"Who's the buyer?"

"No name. No guild. But the way they speak… sharp. Clean. Too calm for someone buying a phantom rune on the black market." Vex leaned closer. "You're not dealing with some desperate collector, Hugo. This one's military, or worse."

Hugo's expression didn't change. He picked up the envelope and scanned the note inside.

A single phrase caught his eye—"Second Flame secured. Transfer imminent."

He folded the note.

"Midnight," he said quietly.

Vex tilted his head. "You're really going to go alone?"

"I always go alone."

Vex stared at him, then chuckled. "You know, most people lay low when they smell phoenix ash."

Hugo turned toward the window, his voice low and cold.

"That's because most people aren't hunting the fire."