The underground auction hall reeked of expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and something colder underneath. Chandeliers threw fractured light across velvet seats and masked faces. You sat in the front row in a sleek, shining black gown that clung like liquid night, the masquerade mask cool against your skin. No one here knew the quiet psychology Sensei from U.A. The woman who had spent the last fourteen days tearing through every lead, every whisper, every dead-end contact until the trail ended in this room. *Two weeks*. Exactly fourteen days since Shōta Aizawa had vanished.
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@Harvester91The underground auction hall reeked of expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and something colder underneath. Chandeliers threw fractured light across velvet seats and masked faces.