"No need, young lady. I'm already here," came a calm voice from the staircase.
Layla turned slightly. An old man in a clean dark suit was coming down the stairs. His face was wrinkled with age, but his eyes were sharp. He didn't smile, but he wasn't rude either.
"How do I address this young lady?" he asked politely.
"I don't know if you're worthy enough to know my name yet," Layla said calmly. "Let's go to your office. Then we'll see if you can convince me to tell you."
The old man didn't get angry. He had met all kinds of people in his life—mafia daughters, ruthless women, and dangerous clients. But this girl… she was different. Young, fearless, and not pretending. He didn't sense arrogance. Just control.
He studied her for a beat longer, then nodded once. "Then let's go upstairs, young lady," he said.
Layla nodded and followed him, walking past the shocked receptionist, the unconscious men still lying on the floor, and others groaning in pain. She didn't look at them. Her footsteps were light, almost soundless, but each step carried a certain weight—as if she belonged there, no matter what had happened moments before.
The office upstairs was old but full of character. The walls were lined with antique shelves. Ancient coins, swords, dusty scrolls, even broken statues stood behind glass. The air was thick with the smell of leather and wood polish. There was a large desk in the center, and a heavy leather chair behind it.
The old man gestured toward the seat opposite his own. "Please, sit if you like," he offered.
But Layla remained standing.
"Now tell me, young lady," the old man said as he sat down. "Why are you looking for me?"
Layla didn't answer right away. She unzipped her school bag, took out a wrapped object, and placed it on the desk. She removed the cloth. A gold bar, glowing under the light.
The old man raised his eyebrows and picked it up. He looked at it carefully.
"Young lady, I'm afraid you came to the wrong place. We don't buy gold here. This is an antique shop, not a jewelry store."
Layla leaned slightly forward. "What I gave you is no ordinary gold bar. It's from a lost kingdom. It's not for wearing. It's for collectors, or for people who know what power means."
The old man looked again at the markings. Strange symbols. Ancient.
"If that's true," he said, "then you must also know that buying or selling something like this is illegal without a license. You're supposed to hand it over to the government. They'll reward you generously."
"I know that," Layla said. "That's exactly why I came here. You're one of the few people who can sell it in the black market—or at least put it in the right hands. I'm not handing over what I found to the government. Not without a fight."
The old man paused. His thumb ran across the edge of the bar absently as he thought. "We don't do that here," he said cautiously.
"I know what you're afraid of," Layla said. "You think I'm working for the police or trying to trap you. But I'm not. I have nothing to do with them."
The old man didn't respond. He simply stared at her for a few moments, then carefully placed the gold bar back on the desk and pushed it forward.
"I don't know what you're talking about, young lady."
Layla picked up the gold bar and wrapped it again.
"Alright. I'll leave. Have a nice day."
She stood and turned.
"Wait, young lady," a new voice said from behind her.
She stopped without turning back. Calm. Still holding the wrapped gold bar in her hand.
Another old man stepped out from a hidden door behind a curtain. His voice was softer, more polite.
"Please, young lady, don't be offended," he said with a slight bow. "My younger brother is overly cautious. But you understand… in this line of work, you must be."
Layla said nothing. She didn't move, didn't speak.
"May I see the gold bar?" he asked respectfully.
She handed it over without a word.
The old man took it with both hands, studying it carefully. He turned it over slowly, ran his fingers across the engravings, then pulled out a small magnifier from his pocket and leaned in. The room was silent as he appraised it.
A long minute passed. Then another.
The only sound was the ticking of an old clock in the corner, slow and deliberate.
Finally, he lifted his eyes. The old man was shocked. This was no ordinary gold bar. The girl was right—it must be from the long-lost, powerful kingdom. Who is this girl? How did she end up with such an artifact? He really wanted to ask where she got it… but in this line of work, you had to respect client privacy.
"What are your instructions, young lady?"
"I can sell it to you," Layla replied coolly. "You'll earn more if you auction it off later. Or…" she paused, "we can put it directly in the auction. Once it's sold, I'll pay you your cut."
The old man nodded slowly.
"I'll buy it," he said. "Straight up."
"Good then," Layla replied.
She leaned back slightly, her hands still calmly on the edge of the desk, her expression unreadable. Nothing in her face showed greed, worry, or excitement. Just calm control.
"Then let's discuss the price," the old man said, his voice steady but curious.
"Okay," Layla replied coolly, then added, "But I suggest you think very carefully before naming your price. Because what you say next might determine whether we ever do business again."
The old man was momentarily stunned. The girl in front of him looked no older than eighteen or nineteen, clearly a high school student—yet she spoke with the composure and gravity of someone far more experienced. He had met many clients in his life, but rarely one with such quiet authority at such a young age. And the way she hinted at future business—he knew right away this was no ordinary customer.
He composed himself, offering a respectful nod. "Don't worry, young lady. I'm always fair to my clients. Especially generous ones like you." He paused, then declared, "I'll buy this gold bar for five million U.S. dollars. What do you think?"
Layla's eyes didn't flinch. "Good. That's exactly the number I had in mind. It's a deal then."
"So, how would you like to receive your money?" the old man asked, leaning forward slightly.
"I'll give you my MetaMask QR code," Layla said calmly. She pulled out her phone, tapped a few times, then held it up for him to scan.
The old man retrieved a sleek tablet from his desk, scanned the code, and began the transfer. His fingers moved with the precision of someone used to handling high-stake transactions. After a brief moment, he looked up.
"Done deal," he said with a nod.
Layla checked her phone, confirmed the transaction, then slid the device back into her pocket without a word.
The older man, now visibly impressed, gently placed the gold bar back in its wrappings and looked up at her with new respect.
"This old man is Old Malik. May I have the privilege of knowing this young lady's esteemed name?" he asked politely.
Layla didn't hesitate. Her voice was calm and composed. "Layla. You can just call me Layla."
Old Malik smiled slightly, folding his hands on the table. "Then may I know if you were satisfied with our service Ms Layla? And… if there's a possibility of working together again in the future?"
"You were generous and honest," Layla replied. "Of course, you'll be the first person that comes to mind when there's another deal."
Old Malik's smile deepened, touched with quiet satisfaction. "Thank you, Layla. This is my business card," he said, sliding a sleek card across the table. "It has my private number. Next time, when there's a deal like this, just call me directly. We'll meet somewhere quieter, more comfortable for business… and you'll be received as our honoured guest."
Layla took the card, nodded respectfully, and slipped it into her pocket. "Then I'll leave first. I need to go back to school."
"Oh yes, yes," Old Malik said with a chuckle. "Don't be late to school."
With that, Layla turned and left the office, her school bag over one shoulder, her steps light but purposeful—disappearing down the stairs, as if nothing extraordinary had just happened.
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