The semi-darkness of the Eye’s archives smelled of dust, ozone, and other people’s secrets. The carousel mechanism turned, clicked, and a folder slid onto the table. No markings. No signatures. Just a hand-drawn eye.

Atlas flipped through the first pages and smirked. "Well, fuck me sideways. They want us to believe in a fairy tale again."

The photos showed empty halls. Or rather, not empty. Paintings hung on the walls, display cases gleamed, diamonds lay exactly where they should. Then came the 'after' shots. Same places. Same angles. Zero traces. Minus the art.

"New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Miami," Merritt muttered. "High-society parties, auctions, charity galas. And she’s everywhere."

"'She' who?" Jack leaned back in his chair. "Because I already like this girl."

Atlas clicked the remote. The screen lit up with headlines.

THE SHADOW. A PHANTOM. ILLUSIONIST OR MYTH? FBI BAFFLED: CAMERAS SEE NOTHING.

"Prime suspect," Atlas said. "A female illusionist. Performed at every event where a theft occurred. The problem is, no one knows what she looks like."

"Classic," Merritt snorted. "Half the witnesses swear it was a petite brunette doing card tricks. The other half insist it was a mature blonde. There’s also a version with a curvy redhead juggling fire. People are ready to fight under oath over their own hallucinations."

"Cameras?" Henley asked.

"Not once," Atlas replied. "No video. No photos. She’s never caught on tape. Photographers swear they shot her. But on the pictures, she’s not there. Like she was cut out of reality."

Merritt whistled. "If that’s not magic, then I’m the Pope. And I need to get my ass to the Vatican."

On the last page of the folder there was only one line. "FIND THE SHADOW.*

"That’s it?" Jack raised an eyebrow. "No 'why', no 'what then'?"

"It’s the Eye," Atlas shrugged. "It never explains why. It tests."

"Or recruits," Merritt added quietly. "Or eliminates a competitor."

On the news screen behind them, an FBI agent’s face flickered. Words like magic, impossible, and public panic were being said far too often. Far too loudly. The crowd was starting to doubt the rules of reality.

Atlas closed the folder. "Alright. If she’s stealing art and doing it beautifully, she’s either working for the Eye or spitting in its face. In both cases, we need to talk to her."

"A romantic date," Jack grinned. "Candles, diamonds, the FBI outside the door."

"She’s playing with perception,” Henley said. "Not masks. Not makeup. She steals attention. People don’t see her. They see what they’re ready to see."

Silence settled over the room. Somewhere deep inside the archives, another mechanism clicked. The Eye wasn’t in a hurry. It already knew the answer.

"Fine," Atlas said, slipping on his jacket. "If the world believes magic exists, we’ll find the one who made it believe."

The lights went out.

The trick had begun.