Joseph kept to the simplest survival plan: don't leave the storeroom, don't trigger hidden Rules.

Between shelves of velvet-lined trays and boxes that breathed too slowly, his hand paused on something colder than bone: a small wooden coffer, locked and heavy, its surface crawling with sigils that shifted like insects under dim light. Ghost-pressure rolled off it in waves.

Taragan had warned: “Do not leave the storeroom until called.” Touching the box might count as leaving the line. Breaking Rules meant paying—often with pieces of yourself.

Joseph chose caution. In the corner, a dust-choked rotary phone waited like a fossil. He lifted the receiver; the dial tone hissed like a hundred lungs. “Storeroom calling,” he said evenly. “Requesting the manager. Unusual inventory found.”

Silence. Then the line died.

Moments later, polished shoes whispered across the floor. George Taragan entered, immaculate—charcoal suit, silk-red tie, frost-sheen on the lapels. His expression was a perfect mask.

“You called for me, Mr. Gates?”

Joseph gestured to the coffer. “Found this. It feels… expensive. What’s the price?”

Amusement flickered in Taragan’s black eyes. *Buy this? Even with a fortune of ash?* He decided to test the human. His voice remained cool: “Three hundred thousand.” He did not name the unit.

Joseph smiled. “Three hundred thousand **Mingbi**. Sold.”

The manager froze for half a heartbeat.

“And,” Joseph added lightly, pointing to a spread of humming rings and a pendant shaped like an open eye, “these pieces as well. Give me a total.”

Taragan recalculated, gaze lingering on the coffer. “One million.” Still no unit.

Joseph reached inside his coat. Books of luminous paper slid into his hand—Mingbi volumes, each worth one hundred thousand, their edges flickering like live flame. He laid them on the counter, one after another, until **ten books** formed a glowing stack.

“One million Mingbi,” he said. “Please count.”

For the first time in decades, genuine surprise cracked the manager’s composure. The notes radiated heat, perfuming the air with scorched gold. As he touched them, each volume sighed and dissolved into smoke, absorbed by the boutique’s invisible ledger.

“You’re… unusually liquid, Mr. Gates,” Taragan murmured.

“Preparation separates the living from the dead,” Joseph replied.

He lifted a golden wristwatch from the selection and fastened it to his wrist. The brand name on the dial melted and re-etched itself, letters twisting like molten bullion until it read:

**GHOULLEX.**

The second hand ticked **backward**, each step an elegant violation.

Desire flashed—unmasked—in Taragan’s eyes. That model had sat unsold for ages, its price an insult even to high-ranking specters. Now it answered a mortal like a trained hound.

“The boutique,” Taragan said softly, “recognizes investors.”

“I plan to stay in business,” Joseph said.

The ghost manager inclined his head with new deference. “Then we shall be very good for each other.”

When he left, the storeroom fell to a careful quiet. On the table, the coffer’s lock pulsed once—slow as a sleeping heartbeat—like something inside had heard every number counted and every promise paid.