Then back at him.
“I accept,” he said again.
The guests gathered closer, tension replacing amusement.
The painting was moved aside, revealing a much larger, more complex safe—covered in lights, sensors, and advanced systems.
This one felt different.
Jake approached it slowly.
He didn’t take out the wire this time.
Instead, he knelt and placed his hands against the metal, closing his eyes again.
He wasn’t searching for a weakness.
He was listening.
He remembered nights on the street—listening to doors creak, locks click, machines hum. He remembered his grandfather’s words:
“Every machine has a rhythm. If you learn to hear it, it will tell you its secrets.”
He studied the blinking lights. The pattern. The timing.
A servant handed him a flashlight when he asked for one.
Jake used it not to see—but to trace the reflections, the responses, the subtle reactions of the sensors.
Slowly, something clicked in his mind.
This safe wasn’t about strength.
It was about sequence.
About silence.
He stood up.
His movements were faster now—more confident.
He turned the dials, not listening for sound… but for the absence of it.
Perfect stillness.
Mr. Harrison’s breathing became uneven. The room was suffocatingly quiet.
Then—