---
The key clicked once, echoing in the empty space.
Alexis stepped inside the shop, hoodie up, expression neutral, eyes sharp. The dusty air welcomed him like an old friend. Nothing had changed — the shelves were still half-assembled, the floor still scattered with crates, and a single fly buzzed somewhere near the back.
Perfect.
The shop wasn't open. That was intentional.
He'd already picked the name: Axis Goods. It sounded trendy enough to belong on a university street, yet vague enough to invite curiosity. The logo was simple — clean black letters on a cream board. No hidden symbols. No glyphs. Nothing that would ever connect it to the truth.
That's how it had to be.
To the world, this would be a store.
To him, it was a stage.
---
> "System," he said softly, locking the door behind him.
> System: "Online. No breach attempts. Civilian storefront secure. Nova's operation continues without complication. First shipment rerouted from Black Gulf to Port Harrow successfully. Estimated gold value: 6.2 million USD."
> "And my incense shelf is still empty. We're balancing priorities beautifully."
He dropped his bag on the counter and walked the length of the shop — a narrow rectangle with wooden shelves against the walls and a back room no larger than a janitor's closet. He had mapped the entire floor plan on paper three times before even signing the lease.
The lighting? Calibrated to look just a little bit cozy.
The product tags? Slightly handwritten to seem endearingly unprofessional.
The register? Fully legal, linked to a tax-clean merchant ID under a name that didn't exist.
> "Axis Goods," he murmured, pulling a dusty crate toward the middle. "A store with no customers and a hundred billion in invisible backing."
> System: "A powerful blend of aesthetic disinterest and actual intent. Clever."
> "You say that like you're proud."
> "I say that because I monitor 217 potential exposure points, and this is the only one that looks like it sells mango soda and portable fans."
Alexis smirked.
He didn't unpack the crates. That would come later. For now, he wanted to absorb the place — feel how the walls held sound, how the light touched the front window at 3 p.m., how long the hallway echo lasted when he walked with heavy steps.
He needed it to breathe like a real store before he let people in.
---
> "Let's do a simulation," he said, sitting on the counter. "Scenario: day one soft open."
> System: "Running simulation."
A soft hum filled his earpiece as the system played through dozens of outcomes.
> System: "Customer one: confused student. Purchases novelty gum. Customer two: curious old man. Asks for vintage radios. Customer three: suspiciously well-dressed woman. Buys nothing, scans walls."
> "Blacklist her. She's probably with a rival org."
> "Affirmative. Assigning shadow flag."
> "Also, add some incense sticks with clever names. Something like 'Burnout Recovery' and 'Regret Reduction.'"
> "Log updated. Scent suggestions pending. Shall I flag sandalwood or jasmine?"
> "Why not both? Let's ruin the olfactory experience."
---
The sunlight began to dip outside.
Alexis rose and stretched. In the center of the shop, surrounded by unopened stock and soft shadows, he felt something shift in his chest.
This place was quiet. It was normal. But only on the surface.
Below that… gears turned.
Gold moved. Operatives waited. Accounts changed hands.
And here he was — planning shelf arrangements like it was the most important mission in the world.
Maybe it was.
> "System," he said as he locked the door behind him, "status of shop opening?"
> System: "Deferred. Awaiting Administrator directive."
> "Exactly. When it opens, it opens clean. On my time."
> "Marked: High-control civilian launch protocol."
He looked back one last time. The lights were off. The sign didn't glow.
Nothing about it looked important.
And that's why it was perfect.