Arthur Harrington did not do "public transport." To Arthur, the London Underground was a mythical, subterranean labyrinth where people went to lose their dignity and catch the plague.
But his black town car was trapped in a gridlock on Piccadilly, and the GPS tracker on his briefcase was mocking him. It showed his billion-dollar merger contract—currently sitting next to a half-eaten tuna sandwich—moving rapidly toward a residential street in North London.
"Sir, the traffic isn't moving," his driver said, looking apologetic. "Climate protesters have glued themselves to the tarmac at the circus."
Arthur checked his Rolex. He had exactly forty-five minutes before the board declared him incompetent. He looked at the entrance to the Leicester Square Tube station. It looked like the mouth of a very damp, very crowded hell.
"Fine," Arthur snapped, stepping out of the car. "I shall descend."
Five minutes later, Arthur was stuck between a man playing a nose-flute and a teenager eating a kebab that smelled like gym socks. The Northern Line train screeched around a corner, sending the entire carriage swaying.
Arthur, refusing to touch the "germ-infested" yellow poles, tried to balance using only his core strength.
CRUNCH.
"Ow! My toe!" a woman shrieked.
"My apologies," Arthur said, stiffly adjusting his tie. "The centrifugal force was unexpected."
"Use the pole, mate," a construction worker laughed. "Unless you think you're Spider-Man."
Arthur ignored him, staring intensely at the digital map. He was sweating. A Senior Partner at Harrington & Sons did not sweat. But the humidity was 90%, and the nose-flute player was now performing a techno-remix of God Save the King.
Meanwhile, in her attic flat, Daisy was having a literal meltdown.
The briefcase was still screaming. It wasn't just a beep anymore; it was a rhythmic, pulsing siren that sounded like a nuclear submarine about to explode.
"Shut up! Shut up!" Daisy yelled, sitting on the briefcase. "I'm not a thief! I'm just a clumsy artist!"
BAM. BAM. BAM.
Her landlord, Mr. Henderson, was still at the door. "Daisy! I know you're in there! Why is there a police siren in my attic? Are you running an illegal disco? Open this door or I'm calling the actual police!"
Daisy looked around her room. It was a disaster zone of half-finished canvases, dirty mugs, and a pile of laundry she called "The Mountain." If the police came, they'd probably arrest her just for the smell of her turpentine.
"Coming, Mr. Henderson! It's just... it's a new alarm clock! Very modern!"
She grabbed a heavy winter coat and shoved it over the briefcase to muffle the sound. It didn't work. The bag began to vibrate so hard it started "walking" across the floorboards.
"Oh, for the love of..."
Daisy grabbed the bag, shoved it into her oversized "Lucky Pizza" tote, and ran for the window. There was a rusted fire escape that led to the alleyway.
"I have to find this Arthur guy," she whispered, climbing out into the rain. "I have to give him his loud, vibrating box before I end up in Belmarsh Prison."
Back at the Tube station, Arthur finally burst through the ticket barriers at Tufnell Park. He looked like he had been through a war. His hair was windswept, his tie was crooked, and he had a mysterious smear of mustard on his left sleeve.
He pulled out his phone. The tracker showed the briefcase was moving.
"She's fleeing," Arthur hissed. "The dognapper is now a briefcase-napper."
He sprinted toward the coordinates. He turned a corner into a narrow alleyway just in time to see a pair of legs dangling from a fire escape.
"You!" Arthur shouted, pointing an accusatory finger. "Stop right there, you... you chaotic element!"
Daisy froze. She looked down. Standing in the mud, looking like a very angry, very wet runway model, was the man from the coffee shop.
"Oh! It's you!" Daisy shouted back. "Your bag is possessed! It won't stop screaming at me!"
"It's an anti-theft siren, you lunatic!" Arthur yelled, moving toward the ladder. "Give it back immediately!"
"Catch!" Daisy cried.
She didn't mean to drop it. She really didn't. But the fire escape was slippery, and the tote bag was heavy. The "Lucky Pizza" bag slipped from her fingers.
Arthur looked up. The five-kilogram leather briefcase, wrapped in a pizza bag, was falling directly toward his head.
"Wait—"
THUD.
The briefcase hit Arthur square in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. He stumbled back, tripped over a discarded crate of cabbages, and fell flat into a giant, muddy puddle.
The Hook: Just as Daisy scrambled down the ladder to check if he was dead, a bright flash went off from the street corner. A paparazzi photographer, who had followed Arthur from the office, lowered his camera with a grin.
"Billionaire Bachelor Arthur Harrington caught in 'Dirty' Alleyway Tryst with Mystery Girl," the photographer whispered. "That's worth at least ten grand."