The revolver spun, end over end, a heavy, dark blur against the gallery's cold lights.
Adam hadn't thrown it to wound her. He'd thrown it to distract. It was a desperate, split-second gamble, a detective's Hail Mary.
Lena didn't flinch. She didn't dodge.
With a speed that seemed to defy physics, her left hand shot up and caught the revolver in mid-air, her fingers instinctively wrapping around the grip as if she'd done it a thousand times. The heavy thud of the catch was the only sound in the vast room.
She held the gun, studied it for a fraction of a second with something like contempt, and then tossed it behind her, where it skittered uselessly across the marble.
Adam's blood ran cold. His one move, his logical, desperate act, had failed utterly.
He was defenseless.
Lena took a step forward, raising the pen-like device again. The blue light at its tip pulsed softly.
"You're fast, detective," she said, her voice a low monotone. "Faster than most. But you're still just a civilian. Now hold still."
"No!" Adam shouted, scrambling backward, his hands held up. "Wait! Just... just tell me what that thing was. The shadow. The smoke. I saw it. I'm not crazy!"
"That's the point," Lena said, advancing. "You did see it. A 'Shade.' An entity that leaks through when a Quarantine-Level Relic—a highly dangerous supernatural object—is mishandled. You saw something you shouldn't have. It's my job to correct that. It's called an Amnestic. You'll wake up in your office with a migraine, and you'll have a vague memory of bad soto."
"Don't. Please," Adam said, his back hitting the concrete wall. He was cornered. His logical mind was racing, trying to find a new angle, a new fact. "Your... your boss. Wijaya's client. He hired me. He paid me. He must think I'm useful. Don't you at least have to report that I made contact?"
This gave Lena pause. She stopped, the blue light of the Amnestic just inches from his face. She was studying him, her cold eyes analyzing his. She wasn't looking at him with anger, but with... curiosity. Like a scientist studying a new, bizarre specimen.
She glanced back at the cowering Mr. Wijaya. "Did he?"
Wijaya, still pale, nodded frantically. "He found the quill, Agent Lena. By himself. At the base of the stairs. No one else saw it."
Lena's gaze snapped back to Adam. The smallest flicker of something—surprise? respect?—passed over her features. "You found the Shade-quill? How?"
"It was a drag mark," Adam said, his voice shaky but finding its professional footing. He was a detective again, not just a victim. "The mark on the floor was inconsistent. Heavy at first, then it went faint. It meant the thief didn't carry the object; the object pulled the thief. It wanted to get to the pedestal. It was dragged to the stairs. The quill was just... evidence. Left behind."
Lena stared at him. The blue light on her device slowly faded. She lowered her hand.
"He's a skeptic," Wijaya offered, slowly standing up. "But his logic is sound."
Lena turned her back to Adam, a sign of dismissal so total it was more insulting than an attack. She tapped a device on her wrist. "Patching through to the Curator," she said, her voice now crisp and formal.
A moment of silence.
"Agent Lena, reporting," she said. "The 'Shade' is contained. The Pythagoras Lantern is... still missing. The thief is gone. However, there is a complication." She glanced over her shoulder at Adam. "The civilian investigator hired by Wijaya... Adam... he's here. He saw the Shade. He also correctly identified the thief's vector of entry and found the quill. He... resisted amnestic protocol."
Adam held his breath. He was listening to his entire life being debated.
A voice replied from Lena's wrist. It was not a voice; it was a sound. A dry, ancient rustling, like old parchment being turned, that somehow formed itself into words. "...And what is your assessment, Seeker?"
Lena didn't hesitate. "He's logical, fast, and completely ignorant. But he isn't hysterical. He saw a Class-Three entity and his first instinct was to analyze a drag mark. He is a potential asset. Or a significant liability. Your call, sir."
Another long, rustling pause. "...Bring him in. Un-blinded. I will see him."
Lena tapped her wrist. "Order confirmed." She turned to Adam. The terrifying agent was gone, replaced by a weary employee. "You're lucky, detective," she said. "You just won the weirdest job interview of your life. Don't make me regret this."
She picked up his revolver from the floor and handed it to him, grip-first. "Put this away. You won't need it where we're going. And it won't work anyway."
The ride was silent. Adam sat in the back of a black, unmarked sedan that looked like it could withstand a bomb. Lena drove, her eyes on the road, while Wijaya sat in the passenger seat, looking relieved.
They didn't blindfold Adam. He watched the familiar streets of Jakarta—Menteng, Cikini, Sudirman—pass by. It was deeply unsettling. He had just seen a monster from a nightmare, and now he was stuck in rush-hour traffic, just like any other Tuesday.
The car didn't go to a secret bunker or a high-tech tower. It pulled into the quiet, respectable parking garage of "The Candra Naya Foundation"—a well-known historical society that supposedly managed cultural exchanges. It was an old, beautifully preserved Dutch colonial building.
Adam had been here once, for his manuscript case. It was a place of dusty books and academic quiet.
"This is it?" Adam asked, skeptical. "The big, secret headquarters?"
"You think a secret organization advertises with laser grids and shark tanks?" Lena said, killing the engine. "The best place to hide a million old secrets is in a building that already holds a million old books. Come on."
Wijaya led them, not to the main entrance, but to a private elevator in the garage. He swiped a key card, then pressed his thumb to a scanner. The elevator doors opened with a quiet, expensive whoosh.
The interior was not steel. It was polished mahogany, with a soft, Persian rug on the floor.
"After you," Wijaya said. Adam stepped in. Lena followed, standing behind him. The doors closed, and there was a sensation not of going down, but of moving... sideways. There was no lurch, just a faint, hydraulic hum.
When the doors opened, Adam's jaw dropped.
This was not a government bunker. It was a library. But it was the largest library he had ever seen. He was standing on a mezzanine overlooking a vast, circular chamber that seemed to descend deep into the earth. It was at least ten stories deep, but warm, filled with polished brass, dark wood, and the rich, intoxicating smell of old paper and leather.
Thousands of shelves lined the walls, filled with books, scrolls, and leather-bound tubes. But in between the shelves, set into reinforced glass cases and illuminated by soft, golden spotlights, were objects.
Adam could see a samurai's katana that seemed to have black smoke curling inside its blade. He saw a Victorian-era typewriter that was typing by itself, its keys clacking away silently behind the glass. He saw a row of what looked like shrunken heads, all singing a silent chorus.
This was it. The Heritage Vault.
"Welcome," a voice rustled, seeming to come from the books themselves, "to The Relic Society."
An old man was standing by a globe in the center of the mezzanine. "Old" felt like the wrong word. "Ancient" was better. He was impossible to place. He could have been Javanese, Chinese, or Arabic, and he looked both eighty years old and ageless. He wore a simple, beautifully cut dark green batik shirt and round, wire-rimmed glasses. He was smiling, a kind, grandfatherly smile. This was the man whose voice sounded like dry leaves.
"You," Adam said, pointing, "are the client. 'The Curator'."
"I am 'The Curator'," the man agreed, bowing his head slightly. "And you are Adam, the skeptic. The man who trusts only his eyes. And now... you have seen. Please, come."
He gestured to a pair of leather armchairs by a non-existent fireplace. Lena and Wijaya stood back, by the elevator. This was a private audience.
Adam sat. The chair was impossibly comfortable.
"What is this place?" Adam asked. "What are... these?" He motioned to the thousands of objects.
"This," the Curator said, "is our Archive. And those are Relics. You would call them 'supernatural'. We call them... history. Pieces of the original, unedited draft of the world. Objects where the laws of physics... frayed. A pen that writes truth. A mirror that shows what could have been. A lantern, like the one you hunted, that can show the 'Shades' that leak through the cracks in reality."
"That 'Shade' was real," Adam said, still processing.
"Very real. And very dangerous. A side effect of the lantern being stolen. When a Quarantine-Level Relic is moved improperly, it... protests. The thief let that Shade loose in the gallery, and then, judging by the quill you found, was attacked and killed by it."
"Killed?"
"Oh, yes," the Curator said grimly. "That 'drag mark' you found? That was the thief's body, Mr. Adam. The Shade dragged him back up the stairs. The Lantern is still loose in that gallery. And we must find it before they do."
"Them? The ones Wijaya warned me about?"
"The Auctioneers," the Curator said, the name sounding like poison on his tongue. "A black-market syndicate that deals in our trade. They do not seek to preserve Relics, or destroy them. They seek only to sell them. To the highest bidder—dictators, cults, billionaires. They are the reason we exist."
He leaned forward, his ancient eyes locking on Adam's. "Mr. Wijaya hired you on my authority. It was a test. I wanted to see if a man of pure, simple logic could track a Relic without knowing what it was. You did not disappoint. You found the quill. My best Seeker, Lena, missed that clue."
From across the room, Adam could feel Lena stiffen.
"You have a choice, Adam," the Curator said, his voice echoing. "You can walk out that elevator. Lena will give you the Amnestic. You will wake up in your office fifty-million rupiah richer, with no memory of this place. You will go back to chasing insurance fraud."
He paused, a glint in his eye. "Or... you can stay. You can become a Seeker. Your logic, your skepticism... it is a weapon in this world, Adam. It is an anchor. My other Seekers... they see the 'magic' too much. You... you see the clues. We need that."
He gestured to the vast library of impossible things. "The pay is... considerable. But the work... the work is everything."
Adam looked at the singing heads. He looked at the smoking sword. He thought of the seven-foot-tall shadow creature. His world was in pieces. He could either try to glue the old one back together, or he could step into the new one.
"I'm a detective," Adam said, his voice rough. "You want to hire me to find stolen goods. You're just... a very specialized kind of client."
The Curator smiled. "Precisely."
"I'm in," Adam said. "But I have one condition."
"Oh?"
"That woman," Adam nodded toward Lena. "She's my partner."
Lena took a sharp step forward, her mouth open to protest.
The Curator held up a hand. "Done," he said, his smile widening. "She will be delighted."