The last guests drift through your gallery, polite and unmoved. One hour left before the show closes — and closes quietly, the way all your shows have. Then a masked stranger in a dark coat moves through every room without stopping. No small talk. No hesitation. He buys everything. Two million dollars. Every piece. Gone in under ten minutes. The only thing he leaves behind is a folded card — just your name, written in ink so precise it feels like a claim. Petra is already pulling at your sleeve, eyes wide, voice sharp with questions neither of you can answer yet. The room feels different now. Louder, somehow, even in the silence he left behind. Something just shifted. You can feel it — but you don't know yet that the man behind that mask has known your name for a long time.