As night deepened over New York City, the Woolworth Building loomed grandly in the darkness.

Last night’s incident had been an absolute disgrace for MACUSA, a humiliation that would be discussed for years to come. A dark wizard, or someone with comparable skill and malicious intent had somehow infiltrated the building’s defenses.

They had stormed into the heart of American magical government, killed an employee in cold blood, stolen Bryan Watson’s confiscated wands from what should have been secure storage, and then departed without hindrance or detection, vanishing as if they’d never been there at all.

This security breach seemed to indicate, with damning clarity, that all the expensive protective measures, all the enchantments and wards and monitoring systems within the building were entirely useless when faced with a determined and skilled enemy.

Fortunately for MACUSA’s public image, the news of President Samuel G. Quahog’s successful reelection had swept through the entire American magical community like wildfire.

The political victory, with its attendant celebrations and analyses and heated debates had captured the complete attention of those reporters who constantly had their ears pricked for any newsworthy story.

The murder investigation had been successfully suppressed and buried on the back pages, overshadowed by the more pleasant narrative of this political victory.

Tonight, in response to the last night’s catastrophic security failure, the protective measures within the building had been clearly and intensely tightened.

Throughout the hundreds of floors that comprised the massive MACUSA building, one could see Aurors in their robes patrolling with alertness. They’d been supplemented by temporarily drafted Strikers who moved in coordinated pairs.

The atmosphere throughout the building was tense.

“I need to remind you one more time, Graves and I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to say.”

The routine departmental heads meeting had just concluded after several hours of heated discussion.

As the conference room door swung open, the cold, oppressive atmosphere that had flooded the room throughout those argumentative hours immediately spilled out into the corridor like fog escaping from a sealed chamber.

Marcelline White of the International Magical Cooperation Department was the first to rush out of the conference room with controlled rage.

From her cold expression, one could tell that the discussion during the meeting had been far from pleasant.

In fact, it had been a complete disaster.

Marcelline rushed through the doorway with quick, sharp movements that showed her desire to escape the toxic environment, but after crossing the threshold, she suddenly turned around.

She faced back toward the conference room, toward Graves, who still sat at the head of the long table with a gloomy expression but stubborn eyes that refused to acknowledge any wrongdoing.

Her voice, when she spoke, was cold enough to freeze water.

“If Mr. Watson terminates his cooperation with us, with MACUSA, with the American magical community because of your disrespectful, prejudicial behavior toward him, then I will certainly impeach you in front of the council for abuse of power and conduct unbecoming of your office.”

She paused, letting the threat register then continued with even more venom.

“Furthermore, I must inform you, since you seem to have forgotten in your zeal to flex your authority that Mr. Watson is the Vice President of the International Confederation of Wizards. He’s not some random foreign wizard you can bully without consequence.

Your foolish, heavy-handed actions toward him are highly likely to be exposed internationally, reported in magical newspapers from Britain to Japan. We will suffer tremendous damage to our reputation in front of our international peers, a humiliation that President Quahog absolutely cannot and will not accept, especially not immediately after his reelection.”

Having delivered this scorching rebuke with perfect, icy precision, Marcelline didn’t wait for any response from Graves or anyone else.

She turned and walked away with her head held high, her high heels clicking sharply against the floor in a clipped rhythm that resounded her rage.

The atmosphere left behind in the conference room was toxic and oppressive, pressing down on everyone present.

Although the other department heads who remained seated showed no overt external emotion on their faces, deep in their eyes lurked both surprise at Marcelline’s boldness and schadenfreude at seeing the powerful Trask Graves being publicly humiliated.

Given their status and position within MACUSA’s hierarchy, generally speaking, most disagreements and conflicts could be resolved through communication and diplomatic negotiation behind closed doors.

Civilized talks was the norm. Public confrontations were considered vulgar and counterproductive.

But this time, Marcelline had directly issued such a harsh, explicit warning in this semi-public setting in front of every department head, with witnesses who would certainly spread word of the confrontation. It was clear beyond doubt that Graves’s rash actions regarding Bryan Watson had truly infuriated her beyond her usual professional tolerance.

Although the Graves family’s influence in American magical politics was substantial and not to be underestimated and although Graves himself at the center of that family’s power network, was usually someone others actively sought to befriend and cultivate relationships with, under the current circumstances, everyone present could foresee his impending misfortune.

And when someone was falling, no one wished to be associated with them lest they be dragged down as well. Political survival instincts were powerful motivators.

The sporadic sounds of chairs scraping against the floor continued for several minutes as the other department heads made their excuses and departed, each finding urgent business elsewhere.

When only Graves remained in the large conference room, sitting alone at the table designed to seat dozens, his fist resting on the surface finally clenched tight with enough force that his knuckles went white.

The ferocity flooding his eyes even caused his dark red pupils to flash with what looked like bloody light in the dim room. But ultimately, after several minutes of internal struggle visible in his twitching jaw and heaving chest, his expression became dejected.

He slowly rose from his chair like an old man and left the room with dragging steps.

Back in his private office, Graves moved through the familiar space like a man in a nightmare. The flickering firelight from the fireplace casted shadows on his rigid face, making him look alternately like a dying old man and like a demon thirsting for blood.

He walked toward his desk which was covered with reports, post and the rubbish of bureaucratic power. His usually steady, confident bearing had an unfamiliar trace of stumbling, as if the floor beneath him had become uncertain.

In the upper right corner of his desk, carefully placed where he would see it first thing each morning, lay this morning’s edition of the New York Ghost.

The front page featured a large photograph of President Quahog showing a silver-haired elderly wizard whose eyes still held a vitality and sharpness. He was captured mid-celebration, smiling broadly with warmth, waving enthusiastically and bowing graciously to the cheering crowd that surrounded him below the platform.

Graves glanced at the photograph only twice before shifting his gaze to a different report placed in front of his chair.

The title, written in bold letters across the top of the first page, read:

‘The Santiago Columbus Murder Case: Analysis of the Possibility of Bryan Watson’s Criminal Involvement’

This analytical report must have been completed by his subordinates during the long hours he’d spent trapped in that meeting.

Seeing the report’s title, Graves’s previously somber face showed a bit more energy. His eyes revealed an eagerness that bordered on desperation.

He took several quick steps to his leather chair, grabbed the report with both hands, and began flipping through it with rough, impatient movements.

The pages rustled loudly in the quiet office.

The general circumstances and results of the entire arrest operation weren’t within his scope of concern right now. He’d read those details later if they became relevant. In fact, even the analytical conclusions of this report, which should have been the most important section, weren’t what he was searching for with such intensity.

Graves flipped rapidly through a dozen or so pages of dense text and diagrams, his eyes scanning without really reading, until he finally found the specific section he was looking for near the back of the document.

‘List of Bryan Watson’s Personal Belongings’

The moment Graves spotted these words, his index finger traced down the hastily written list, moving all the way to the bottom. When he saw one particular item, his eyes immediately blazed with light, and his finger pressed down so hard it nearly punctured the analysis report.

“There really is one… How could Watson have this thing…”

Bewilderment flashed across Graves’s square, solemn face as his lips moved, murmuring in disbelief.

Clutching the analysis report tightly, Graves’s eyes flashed with various emotions: excitement, exhilaration, contemplation, hesitation but ultimately, all emotions transformed into resolve.

Graves tossed the report onto the desk. Facing the reflection in the window glass, he adjusted his expression, restoring his usual solemnity before turning to walk toward the fireplace. But as he took a step, his expression showed hesitation again. This hesitation didn’t last long. After glancing at Quahog’s face on the desk, his eyes regained their determination, and he strode toward the fireplace.

His hand reached out and grabbed a handful of Floo powder from the container on the mantle, then tossed it into the fireplace, which contained only dying embers from earlier in the evening.

The powder hit the weak fire and exploded into intense green flames.

In that magical light, Graves’s voice rang out clearly and firmly:

“Detention Room.”

Then, without pausing he stepped decisively into the surging firelight. The green flames consumed his body, and he disappeared completely, leaving only the fading glow and a wisp of ash drifting slowly down.

Meanwhile, several hours earlier in the evening due to the time difference, the city of New York was displaying its energy in full force.

The bright neon lights that covered nearly every building diluted the thick darkness of night, pushing back the shadows with their dazzling, colorful lighting.

Though it was late, looking up from street level, one could see that almost every skyscraper among the densely packed buildings still had its windows brightly lit.

Behind those countless lit windows, Muggles were working day and night within these steel giants they had created with their own creative hands and remarkable technology.

They were striving and struggling tirelessly for their specific lives and for society’s collective development and progress. Their exhaustive efforts, their refusal to rest, their constant push toward more and better and faster, all of this energy made even the cool night air feel urgent and charged with purpose, as if the very atmosphere was infected with their drive.

“This is truly remarkable… I’ve never been to New York before, but I never imagined it would be so extraordinary!”

Sirius looked around with wide eyes unable to conceal his genuine astonishment and wonder.

“You couldn’t find this many tall buildings in London if you searched the entire city… The Muggles here are truly awe-inspiring. The sheer scale of what they’ve accomplished without magic…”

He shook his head in amazement.

The constant back-and-forth travel between two continents with multiple stops across the Atlantic had left Amelia’s facial features visibly marked by deep fatigue.

As Sirius marveled at how this city’s magnificent modern architecture differed so intensely from London, the surrounding light and darkness began spinning in Amelia’s eyes.

The neon signs blurred and ran together. The ground seemed to tilt. The spinning sensation intensified rapidly until her vision tunneled to a pinpoint and her legs simply gave out beneath her—

“Whoa!”

Quick-reflexed Sirius caught Amelia just as she was about to fall to the hard pavement. His strong arms went around her shoulders and waist, supporting her weight easily. He raised his eyebrows with concern, his previous touristic interest in the city replaced by worry.

“What’s wrong? Are you ill? Should I find a Healer?”

“Thank you—I’m sorry—”

Taking several deep breaths, Amelia felt somewhat better as the cool night breeze brushed across her overheated face, helping to clear some of the fog from her mind.

She nodded gratefully to Sirius while carefully removing herself from his supporting embrace, trying to regain her balance.

“I’m just… possibly a bit more tired than I realized. It’s nothing serious, really. I’ll be fine in a moment. Mr. Black, we should hurry to see Bryan. He lives in this building right in front of us, that one there.”

She pointed to a tall building just a block away.

The resilience displayed by this unfamiliar young woman beside him earned Sirius’s sincere admiration. However, after glancing at Fawkes, who was still perched patiently on his shoulder radiating warmth and soft golden light, he still asked with some puzzlement:

“Since Bryan’s location is right in front of us, why don’t we just Apparate directly into his room? Or have Fawkes carry us there? It would save time and you wouldn’t have to walk when you’re clearly exhausted.”

“I—uh—”

Amelia brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen across her face.

In the shifting glow of the surrounding neon lights, her pale complexion and the vulnerability of exhaustion revealed a stunning beauty that was quite unlike her usual cool, professional demeanor.

The transformation made Sirius’s heartbeat skip irregularly in a way that took him by surprise.

“We don’t know the exact situation in there, Mr. Black,” Amelia explained with careful reasoning, despite her fatigue.

“His room… or the surrounding area. I’m absolutely certain there are Aurors actively monitoring it right now. If we suddenly appear directly inside Bryan’s room through magical means, we won’t be able to explain our presence or our methods of entry reasonably.”

She paused, gathering her thoughts.

“I can go see Bryan openly because Graves hasn’t yet officially terminated the supervision order he gave me at the beginning of this whole affair. As far as anyone knows, I’m still assigned to monitor and assist Bryan. But—”

Amelia looked directly at Sirius, her brown eyes meeting his gray ones with seriousness.

“Professor Dumbledore said you have a reliable way to conceal yourself from observation… If it’s simply the Disillusionment Charm, well, unless your proficiency is particularly high, I’m not completely sure it can fool the eyes of Aurors who are specifically watching for any unusual activity.”

“Oh, the Disillusionment Charm?” Sirius responded with a slight smile, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“I can indeed use it competently, but I wouldn’t claim my proficiency is particularly exceptional or anything to boast about. However—”

His smile widened into a grin.

“I happen to have a more sophisticated method than that!”

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