The invitation carried no name—only a time, a place, and a symbol pressed into black cardstock. Carmen Sandiego arrived three minutes late. Deliberately memorable.

The underground gala glittered with gold light and hidden intentions. Masks concealed faces, but not motives. Wealthy bidders drifted between stolen relics, blood-stained jewels, and secrets worth fortunes.

Carmen moved through the crowd in a flash of red, silent and observant. She cataloged exits, body language, and suspicious habits. One guest watched reflections instead of people. Another never touched their drink.

Interesting. Near the bar, her attention settled on a presence that didn't belong. Without looking over, she spoke softly. “Funny, isn’t it? The most valuable things always end up in the wrong hands.”

A pause.

“Though some people come here not to bid,” she added, “but to see who else does.”