London, 10 p.m. The rain beats like a metronome on a taxi headed to the beating heart of Shoreditch, where Aya Nakamura and Marco Leone prepare to descend into the darkest underbelly of Europe: a clandestine auction where desire is sold at the last breath. Aya's technical expertise and strategic mind merge with Marco's coolness and quick hands, as the city engulfs them in its theater of mirrors, smoke, and poisonous promises.
In the hushed silence of a pop-up gallery reeking of incense and conspiracy, a game is being played where the prize is a stolen molecule, capable of rewriting humanity's emotional destiny. Around them move figures disguised as collectors, brokers, and disgraced scientists: shiny masks of a market where power is exchanged in drops, and every offer is a sharp blade.
When tensions reach breaking point and the auction explodes under the police assault, all is not as it seems. The protagonists move in a ballet of deception, precise gestures, and glances that know too much. And when all seems lost, a shadow slips into the darkness—with it, the true key to anger and peace. The hunt continues, and the truth has just lost another name.
A team of Japanese scientists announces the molecule LYL 8, capable of inhibiting negative impulses in the amygdala; financial markets, governments, and bioethicists question the impact of a society without anger.
Stories. Osaka unveils LYL 8: the first 'anti-anger pill'. Chapter 12 – Auction Night in Shoreditch
London, May 17, 9.27pm.
The black cab sped silently along Curtain Road, its door streaked with rain and its tires dodging deep, dark puddles, where the water smelled of stale gin, cigarettes, and burnt paper. On the sidewalks, the Shoreditch night was a symphony of lights and voices: from historic pubs and cocktail bars billowed waves of drunken laughter, clouds of white steam, and the acrid, lingering smell of chips, battered fish, and hot sauce. The door of a bar slammed against the wall, briefly letting in a muffled electronic hit and the raucous echo of a private party.
A red double-decker bus thundered past, spraying trails of water across the asphalt and leaving a light trail of fuel in its wake, mingling with the scent of spilled beer and wilting flowers from the late-night flower vendors. Liquid streaks stretched across the taxi's windshield, distorting the reflections of the streetlamps, transforming the neighborhood into a kaleidoscope of dirty yellow, electric blue, flashing shop windows, and mint-green neon.
Art gallery signs, mural-decorated shutters, graffiti on damp walls: everything blended into a nervous, lively, and fleeting mosaic.Inside the taxi, Aya Nakamura sat stiffly in the backseat, one knee over the other, her fingers grazing the perfect collar of her black dress: technical, breathable fabric, invisible seams, designed to look elegant while concealing traceless microfibers. A dress that blended into the shadows, promising to vanish into the crowd in seconds. Beneath it, she wore flat shoes, polished and silent.
Aya closed her eyes for a moment, mentally reviewing every detail of the script: the fake name she was supposed to pronounce with confidence, an accent developed after hours of listening between Oxford and Tokyo, the tone of a peptide specialist accustomed to dealing with eccentric collectors who were reluctant to ask questions. Her diplomatic passport was well hidden in her inside pocket, Haruto's flash drive even closer to her skin...
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