"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen."
Standing at the podium beneath the bright lights of the auction hall, Joey Cicero, the hotel's executive manager, adjusted his tie and offered a practiced smile.
"My name is Joey Cicero, executive manager of this hotel. On behalf of our staff, I welcome all distinguished guests to tonight's auction."
Polite applause rippled through the hall.
Cicero raised his hand slightly, signaling the staff behind him. On the table before him sat two objects: a polished wooden gavel and an old pocket watch that looked as though it had passed through generations of hands.
"Now," Cicero continued smoothly, "allow me to present the first item of the evening—an antique pocket watch."
Behind him, the massive screen lit up, displaying close-up images and detailed information.
"This pocket watch originates from Gotham's well-known Eliot family. Over a century ago, Edward Eliot, the family's patriarch at the time, spared no expense to commission master craftsmen from across the world to create it…"
Cicero spoke with enthusiasm, detailing the watch's history, craftsmanship, and symbolic value. To the audience, it was the perfect opening—elegant, refined, and steeped in Gotham's aristocratic past.
But Dick Grayson wasn't listening.
He leaned back slightly in his seat, appearing attentive, but his thoughts were racing far ahead of the auctioneer's words.
"Kaito Kid's target has to be the pink diamond."
There was no doubt in his mind.
"He'll act at midnight. That's his style."
Dick's fingers tightened subtly as he held the two cards concealed in his palm—the notice of theft and the challenge letter.
No one else had noticed Kaito Kid's infiltration. That was what troubled him.
"If he could remain hidden, why challenge me at all?"
Why announce his presence?
Why provoke him?
"Is he confident I won't expose him in time… or does he want me focused elsewhere?"
Dick lowered his gaze, discreetly comparing the wording on the two cards.
Every phrase.
Every choice of words.
"If I were Kaito Kid," Dick thought, "what would be the last thing I'd want Robin to do right now?"
His eyes narrowed.
---
Snipers in the Shadows
Across the street from the hotel, the mood was entirely different.
On the rooftop of a nearby building, several sniper rifles were positioned with mechanical precision. Their barrels pointed directly toward the eighteenth floor of the hotel—the auction hall.
The men behind the scopes were silent professionals.
Standing behind them, Ogilvy, one of Penguin's trusted subordinates, pulled out his phone and made a call.
It connected almost instantly.
"What is it, Ogilvy?"
A woman's voice answered, sharp and impatient.
"Lack," Ogilvy said calmly, "are you already inside the auction hall?"
"Yes," she replied. "I'm sitting in a corner watching these rich idiots fight over antique trash. Grey Hiltard is right next to me."
Her irritation was obvious.
"There's still a long time before that fake gemstone appears. If you've got something to say, say it fast."
"Watch your tone," Ogilvy said quietly. "You're inside the auction hall. Don't let anyone hear you."
Lack scoffed.
"Are you questioning my abilities? Don't forget—I've worked for the boss far longer than you. If I don't want someone to hear me, they won't."
Ogilvy's eyes darkened slightly, but he let it pass.
"Have you seen any sign of Kaito Kid?"
"No," Lack answered coldly. "If I had, he'd already be dead."
Her arrogance was unmistakable.
Ogilvy chuckled softly.
"Confidence is good. I hope you can live up to it."
His voice lowered.
"Remember the boss's orders. Do not engage Kaito Kid immediately. Let the GCPD play with him first. If possible, we stay hidden."
"Hmph."
Lack snorted and hung up without another word.
Whether she agreed or not was anyone's guess.
---
A Disguise Within a Disguise
"Miss Lack?"
The man beside her leaned closer, his voice polite, almost servile.
"What did Mr. Ogilvy say? Did the boss issue new instructions?"
The speaker was a portly middle-aged man in a tailored blue suit, his hair neatly combed, his expression deferential.
This was Grayle Tartard Ethan, the general manager of Ethan International Shipping Company.
Or at least—that was who everyone thought he was.
In reality, this man was Dean Thurston in disguise.
The real Grayle Tartard was still unconscious, tied up in a restroom stall.
Dean had gone to great lengths to make the disguise believable. Their physiques were completely different, forcing him to pad his clothing extensively.
But the illusion held.
"No," Lack replied irritably. "Just nonsense. Wasting my time."
Dean smiled faintly.
"You seem to dislike Mr. Ogilvy," he said casually. "Aren't you both the boss's most trusted people? Why does it feel like there's… tension?"
Lack sneered.
"Most trusted? On what basis?"
She leaned back, clearly eager to vent.
"I've been with the boss for ten years. I've eliminated enemies, crushed rivals, and kept operations running smoothly. Iceberg Casino, the Penguin Gang's biggest source of income, is under my management."
Iceberg Casino.
Dean's eyes flickered.
That casino was legendary—Penguin's financial cornerstone.
And it was managed by this woman?
Interesting.
"What about Ogilvy?" Lack continued disdainfully. "He joined three years ago. Before that? Debt collection. Loan sharking. Betting rings. Street thug work."
She scoffed.
"For two years, he wasn't even qualified to see the boss. Then during last year's gang war, he got lucky—showed up first, said a few clever things, and suddenly he's a strategist."
Her expression twisted.
"One year. Just one year. And now he's 'trusted'?"
Dean nodded thoughtfully, hiding his true thoughts.
If someone climbed that high in one year, perhaps the problem wasn't Ogilvy.
From Lack's words alone, it was obvious—she relied on violence and seniority, not intelligence.
A brute without strategy.
And for Dean?
That made her extremely useful.
Since entering the auction hall under Grayle Tartard's identity, Dean had already extracted valuable information from her—without resistance.
Then—
Dean's gaze shifted.
Something was wrong.
He looked down toward the front row.
The center seat—the one belonging to Dick Grayson—was empty.
Only Alfred Pennyworth remained seated, calm and composed.
Dick was gone.
And that meant—
The real game had begun.
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