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He ran out of the shop, heart hammering, heading for the nearest betting agent. He didn't look back. Had he stayed, he would have seen the old man take down the photo of the oxblood shoes and replace it with a photo of the very sneakers Rian had been wearing—worn, dusty, and marked with a new set of numbers for the next seeker to find.

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"Those are the 'Midnight Specters,'" the old man whispered. "Very expensive. Very accurate." He ran out of the shop, heart hammering,

An old man emerged from behind a counter stacked with betting slips. He didn't look at Rian; he looked at Rian’s feet. "You’re wearing yesterday’s luck. You need something for tomorrow." He ran out of the shop