The underground parking lot smelled of damp concrete and expensive exhaust. A black, long-wheelbase Lexus sat under the fluorescent lights like a coffin on wheels. My reflection stared back from the tinted window-a stranger in emerald silk.

  The dress was backless, cut high enough on the thigh to allow for a concealed holster if necessary. Hair swept up in an elegant, slightly messy bun. Sharp eyeliner. Bold red lip. The woman in the glass looked like she owned half of Roppongi.

  Socialite on the outside. Soldier in very expensive camouflage on the inside.

  This wasn't the first time I'd worn a cover identity like a second skin. Africa, the Balkans, Hong Kong-different dresses, different names, same cold focus. But those jobs had been solo. Tonight, two teenagers were walking into the dark with me, and that changed the arithmetic in ways I didn't want to think about too carefully.

  Inside my clutch bag, Kibi shifted, his nose poking out from the zipper.

  "It smells like money and danger in here," he whispered. "My two favorite smells."

  "Stay hidden," I murmured. "If anyone sees a talking fox at a black market auction, our cover is blown before we clear the lobby."

  "Hidden! Got it! Completely invisible!" His tail poked out the other side of the bag. I stuffed it back in.

  A pair of footsteps echoed through the garage. Akane rounded the corner and stopped dead.

  Floral print dress. Just below the knee. Sensible flats. It was a "nice" dress in the way a grandmother would describe it-appropriate for Sunday brunch, maybe a job interview at a flower shop. She froze ten feet away, her mouth falling open. Her face went from its usual tan to a deep, alarming shade of crimson in approximately three seconds.

  "M-Misaki?" she stammered, her eyes darting from my heels to my neckline and then anywhere else. "You... you look... I mean, wow. You're actually... really..."

  "Red, Akane. You're very red," I said, resisting the urge to facepalm. "And that dress is for a family dinner, not a black market auction where the starting bid is usually the price of a small apartment."

  She blinked, swallowed, and then overcorrected the way only Akane could. Her spine snapped straight and she flexed one arm, grinning like a wolf.

  "W-well, I mean, who's even going to be looking at clothes when I'm in the room, right?" She jabbed a thumb at herself. "These guns speak louder than any dress."

  The flex lasted about two seconds before the blush came roaring back. She dropped her arm and stared at the concrete floor like it personally offended her.

  "I thought you said 'nice'!" she squeaked, her hands fluttering nervously. "I spent an hour ironing this!"

  "I meant 'nice' as in 'I am here to buy a soul and I don't care who knows it,'" I sighed. "What I'm wearing is 'nice.' What you're wearing is... polite."

  Before she could respond, another set of footsteps approached. Suzune drifted into the light, looking like she’d just walked out of a graduation ceremony. She was wearing her official school attire-a dark blazer, pleated skirt, and a perfectly knotted tie. She had her hands in her pockets and a look of profound boredom on her face.

  A vein in my temple began to throb.

  "Oh, look," Suzune drawled, her eyes flicking over me with clinical detachment. "You all decided to play dress-up. You look like you're about to marry a billionaire or assassinate one. Possibly both."

  "Suzune," I said, my voice tight. "You're in a school uniform."

  "It's my most formal outfit," she shrugged. "And who's the muscle? Did you hire a babysitter for me?"

  She nodded toward Akane, who was still vibrating with embarrassment. The two had never met. Suzune's world was back-alley alchemy and dusty herb shops; Akane's was bathhouse steam and lightning-charged brawls. Two completely different orbits, colliding for the first time in an underground parking lot at midnight. Wonderful.

  "Akane, Suzune. Suzune, Akane." The rear door of the Lexus swung open under my hand. "Akane is security. Suzune is our artifact consultant."

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Akane, to her credit, tried the friendly approach first. She stuck out her hand, the floral dress rustling as she stepped forward.

  "Hey! Nice to meet you. Misaki told me you're really smart, so-"

  "Security?" Suzune cut her off without taking the hand, sizing Akane up from shoes to hairline with the unhurried precision of someone appraising a secondhand appliance. "You've got calluses on every knuckle and your shoulders are wider than most men's. Fighter, not a thinker. Let me guess-you solve problems by punching them until they stop being problems."

  Akane's outstretched hand curled into a fist. Her jaw tightened.

  "And you solve problems by being the problem, huh?" she shot back, her amber eyes narrowing. "How old are you, twelve?"

  "Sixteen. Which is old enough to know that floral print doesn't intimidate anyone."

  They stared at each other-Akane towering, Suzune unimpressed-and for a moment the parking lot crackled with something that wasn't quite hostility. More like two magnets testing each other's polarity.

  "Enough," I said, my voice dropping into the register that ended arguments in war zones. "Get in the car. Both of you."

  The chauffeur, a silent man in a crisp suit, didn't even blink as the two girls piled into the plush leather interior. The front passenger seat took my weight with a soft exhale of leather.

  "Ginza. The 24-hour boutique on the fourth block. Call ahead-two complete transformations. High-end, no budget, thirty minutes."

  In the rearview mirror, the girls exchanged a look. Akane's eyes were wide with a mix of fear and excitement. Suzune tried to maintain her deadpan expression, but her fingers twitched against the leather seat.

  Despite their protests, the spark of genuine happiness in their eyes was impossible to miss. Tokyo was the only city in the world where you could buy a new identity at two in the morning, and they were about to find out exactly how that worked.

  ***

  The boutique was a temple of glass and chrome, staffed by women who moved with the grace of predatory cats. The sharp scent of expensive perfume hit like a wall the moment we stepped inside.

  The velvet chair became my command post. Sparkling water in hand, short clipped sentences aimed at the staff. Fabric and frustration, in equal measure.

  Akane went first. The tailors circled her like sculptors assessing marble, and she stood there with her arms out, looking like she was about to be frisked. They fitted her into a sharp white power suit with low heels-clean lines, crisp lapels, the kind of outfit that said "executive protection" without needing a word.

  "Can I move in this?" Akane asked, throwing a test jab at the air. The suit didn't even crease.

  "Full range of motion," the lead tailor confirmed.

  "Good enough for me."

  She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror and went very still. For a moment, the brash brawler vanished. The woman staring back was formidable, elegant, and dangerous. Then Akane grinned, cracked her knuckles, and the moment was gone.

  Suzune was harder. She rejected the first three outfits with a withering glance, declared the fourth "something a funeral director's mistress would wear," and nearly reduced a junior tailor to tears before we settled on a pleated black designer dress and a cropped jacket that screamed "spoiled heiress."

  "It has pockets," she said, running her fingers along the hidden seams with grudging approval. Her satchel of alchemical supplies would fit neatly inside-vials, emergency compounds, the works. Practical, even under the glamour.

  She looked at herself in the mirror. For exactly half a second, her deadpan mask cracked and something soft flickered across her face-the private thrill of a girl who'd never been able to afford anything this nice. Then the mask snapped back into place.

  "Adequate," she declared.

  "She cleans up," Akane offered from across the room.

  Suzune's eyes narrowed. "Don't push it, muscles."

  The transformation was complete by the time we walked back out to the car.

  ***

  The villa was located on the dark, wooded outskirts of the city, hidden behind a high stone wall topped with discreet security cameras. It was a sprawling, modern structure of glass and black basalt, glowing like a dark jewel against the trees.

  The Lexus crunched to a halt on the gravel driveway. Emerald silk whispered against my legs as the door opened.

  Akane followed, looking formidable. The white suit was crisp, her crimson hair tied back in a tight, professional ponytail. She moved like executive security-the kind that didn't need a gun because she was the weapon.

  Suzune stepped out after her, smoothing her jacket with a practiced air of arrogance. Draped in high-end brands, she looked exactly like a brilliant, bored, and incredibly wealthy younger sister.

  "Final briefing," I said, keeping my voice low as we approached the heavy oak doors. "I am the principal. Suzune, you are my spoiled sister-you're here because you're bored and you want me to buy you something shiny. Akane, you are the shadow. You don't speak unless I tell you to. You watch the exits and the hands of everyone in the room."

  "Got it, older sister... or should I say Grandma?" Suzune muttered, checking her reflection in a small compact. "Try to keep up. I've got a reputation to maintain."

  "I'm ready," Akane said, her voice steady, though her knuckles were white around the strap of her discreet equipment bag.

  The security guards at the door checked my digital token. They stepped aside, their expressions shifting from suspicion to a wary respect.

  "Welcome to the Exchange," one of them grunted.

  Suzune looked at the guard, then at the villa, and let out a long, theatrical sigh.

  "Ugh," she groaned, her voice carrying perfectly in the quiet night. "I hope the catering is better than the architecture. This place looks like a funeral home for people with bad taste."

  Inside my clutch, Kibi's nose pressed against the zipper. "Smells like old money and fresh crimes," he breathed, barely audible. "My kind of party."

  The weight of the mission settled between my shoulder blades as we stepped into the lion's den.