Maskbound: The Ultimate Hunter

Crown’s office filled the fortieth floor of the Bureau tower, a round room ringed with twelve glass cases. Every case stood empty, waiting under the light like a row of chairs for guests who never came.

Squad Nine stood in a crooked line before her desk, still smelling of broken glass and sugar.

Crown gestured to the chairs, “Sit.”

Bruno lowered himself into a chair as though it might file a complaint, his pauldron clanking against the arm. Pipa perched on the other armrest of Zinnia’s chair, hugging her drone against her chest like a frightened cat.

“Director, I have been awake for thirty hours, so if this is a lecture I would like it in writing, with snacks,” Ganzo rumbled.

She spread six photographs across the desk, each showing a sleeper lying under a hospital sheet. Beside them she laid a seventh, older picture of Kell Rowan smiling beside a gutted Wearer.

“Seven Hunters in five months, all in the Gilded District, all cut by the same hand,” she said.

“He lifted three masks in under ten seconds last night, Director, I was standing close enough to count his buttons,” he said.

“The Bureau calls him the Collector while the Guilds call him a rumor, that is how he lasted this long.”

Beyond the tall windows the Gilded District glittered in the sun, its gold rooftops hiding every secret. Somewhere beneath them a man in a tailor’s apron of masks was already choosing his next Hunter.

Zinnia leaned over the desk, her finger hovering above the last photograph. “An S rank Visage, according to this file, so the Bureau intends to send a squad of children after him.”

“The Bureau intends to send the only squad he spoke to,” Crown answered.

Nilo kept his eyes on Rowan’s smile, a man who laughed at the camera without seeing it. The mask beneath that grin was worth more to the Collector than the man who wore it.

“He called your masks by name before he left the hall, did he not?” she asked.

“He did, all seven, in the exact order I got them,” Nilo said.

“Then someone sold him that list or he sees what the scanner cannot, either way I dislike both answers.”

‘Seven names, in order. Only a handful of people alive know that order, I like every single one of them.’

Bruno cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders, “Director, my father will hear of this appointment by luncheon, I confess the thought makes my stomach rebel.”

“He heard at dawn, Mister Steelhorn, from me, he did not enjoy the call,” Crown replied.

She slid a single sheet across the desk, stamped with her silver seal and signed in violet ink. Ganzo lifted it between thumb and forefinger, his lips moving as he read, until they stopped moving altogether.

“Six hundred thousand marks… on delivery,” he whispered.

“Living or otherwise, Captain, I would rather he arrive in a form that cannot cut anyone,” Crown said.

The Captain sat down so abruptly that the chair beneath him gave a worried creak.

Zinnia plucked the page from his fingers, her eyes narrowing over the second paragraph, “Clause nine places every expense upon the squad until delivery, Director.”

“Clause nine also places forty thousand marks in your account this afternoon as an advance,” Crown said.

“Cash, if I may,” Nilo said, raising a hand, “four thousand of it is already spoken for.”

“The Ferris family lost their emergency husk mask on my account, Director, so that debt does not belong in a ledger.”

Crown regarded him for a long moment, the way she might regard a map that told the truth.

“You may collect it from the cashier in coin, Hunter, I will note the reason,” she said.

‘Four thousand gone to the Ferrises, then. One debt down, one monster to go.’

“A fine instinct, paying one’s debts with money meant for a monster,” Bruno murmured, grudging respect softening his voice.

“Do not make it a speech, Steelhorn,” Zinnia warned.

“I would never, I merely observe that it is the decent thing, one I might have thought of first.”

Nilo laid one finger on Rowan’s photograph, the grin on his face vanishing without a trace. In the bandolier Jingles stopped mid-pun, Zilch went still, Cadenza lowering her voice to a hush.

“He gives the masks back before he’s done with them, every single one,” he said, his voice flat.

“That is not written in clause nine, Hunter.”

“It is written in mine.”

Pipa raised her hand like a child in class, “Does the bounty include stream rights, Director, my chat will need a very long title card?”

“There will be no streaming, filming or drone within a street of the Collector,” Crown said flatly.

Pipa’s drone drooped to the carpet with a mournful whirr, its red light dimming like a scolded puppy. Crown watched it sink with the faintest twitch at her mouth, gone before anyone could swear to it.

“Chat… I have been muzzled by the state,” she breathed.

“You have been preserved by the state, Hunter, a different thing entirely.”

Crown rose from her desk with her violet coat settling around her like a slow tide at dusk. The whole office seemed to lean toward her, the empty cases ringing faintly with each of her steps.

“Whatever the Guilds offer, take nothing, sign nothing, and tell no one where—”

“We know, Director, a hook is a hook,” Nilo said.

“The Foxes’ Master offered his house and the Rhinos offered their vaults,” Zinnia said, “so which of them is baiting the trap?”

“Possibly both,” Crown answered, “possibly neither, that is what frightens me.”

“Every victim wore bespoke clothes within a month of the attack, each garment from a Guild tailor,” she added.

Her pen was already moving, “Then the hunt begins at the tailors, a thread that fine is not sold anywhere on the Ring.”

“Begin there, Quartermaster, report to me alone.”

The Captain rubbed his hands together, “Tailors, I approve, nobody ever hid a monster inside a nice hem.”

Pipa whispered into her collar, “Chat, we are going shopping for monsters, so bring your wallets.”

“I know three tailors who owe my family favors and one who owes me an apology,” Bruno offered.

“We begin at the Silk Row tailors at dawn, Pipa carries the notebook instead of the drone, Bruno carries the umbrella.”

“Chat… I have been promoted to stationery.”

Crown dismissed them with a single curt nod, already turning back toward the twelve empty glass cases.

Nobody spoke until Ganzo folded the contract into his vest pocket with enormous care. “Then we take the job, Director, the alternative is waiting for a seventh sleeper.”

“Seventh and eighth, Captain, his card said the count was not finished.”

Crown opened the door for them herself, a courtesy so rare that the corridor fell silent.

In the corridor Examiner Brickle staggered past under a tower of folders, squinting at Nilo with deep suspicion. He opened his mouth to ask for a name, forgot the question, then bellowed at the nearest janitor.

“Young man, you there, state your business before I call a guard,” he snapped.

“The name is Nilo, nobody you’d remember,” Nilo said, tipping an imaginary hat.

The elevator carried them down forty floors in a silence broken only by the occasional sniffle from Pipa. At the bottom the doors opened onto a busy plaza, a city pretending that nothing at all happened.

The cashier’s window sat in an alcove off the lobby, a clerk behind it already squinting at his ledger.

“Name and rank for the advance, please,” the clerk said.

“Unclassified, rank B, the one with the forty thousand.”

The clerk glanced up from the ledger, blinked twice, then repeated himself word for word, “Name and rank for the advance, please.”

Zinnia slid her Bureau card under the glass, “Unclassified rank B, forty thousand marks, with four thousand in coin and the rest to the squad account.”

The clerk counted the notes with a wet thumb, pushing a canvas bag through the slot like a defused bomb.

“That was the decent thing, as Steelhorn said, but I will deny agreeing with him in public,” she murmured.

He leaned on the counter, “Is the other column getting long?”

“It is two marks long now, which is two more than I planned,” she said, already writing.

Bruno patted his stomach, “I find that I am hungry for the first time since the ball.”

Nilo stopped at the bottom of the steps, four thousand marks in coin weighing down his coat pocket. For one long breath the crowd flowed around him, every face sliding past without ever catching on his.

Zilch spoke in the rack, quiet as a held breath, “Someone is behind.”

“Plain mask, soft feet.”

Nilo turned slowly in place, scanning the plaza for any pale shape standing still among the hurrying crowds. A pigeon took off from a ledge, a curtain stirred opposite, then a scarf end slipped from sight.

‘Nobody follows a thief for his money. They follow him because they want something he hasn’t noticed yet.’

He patted his coat from collar to hem, finding seven masks and every coin still in place. Only the third button was missing, snipped clean through the thread without so much as a tug.