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  Michael gaped as what he’d written faded. The line was blank again. “Just, uh, testing the ink.” He set pen to paper once more, marching the nib through each letter of his name.

  M—I—C—hael hates signing this because NyxCorp will fire hundreds, then create a monopoly that’ll bankrupt families, but this merger’s the only thing Michael has left.

  The pen stilled. Only thing left? Michael had plenty! Friends—constantly busy, though . . . Well, he had family—in other states . . . Okay, there was this firm he’d built from scratch after leaving Christina. And . . . this industry-shaking, history-making deal . . .

  You’re hollow, the pen wrote.

  Michael looked up.

  As before, neither Detenweiler nor Trenchcoat Man seemed to register Michael’s scribblings, which were even now fading away. “You seriously don’t see that?”

  “I see you’re having second thoughts, Mr. Ho.”

  “I . . . This pen’s not working.”

  He was about to call Drew, but Detenweiler produced his own ballpoint. “Here—for heaven’s sakes, what is it now?”

  Michael couldn’t release the pen. It yanked his hand back to the contract, scribbling with impossible speed:

  I chose career over love; some nights, I find myself opening search windows to see what Christina’s up to; she’s moved overseas; I cancel the searches before I find out too much because I couldn’t take it if she’s married—

  Michael wrestled his pen-hand under the table, but not before the nib tore the document.

  “Unbelievable!” Detenweiler leapt up. Quiet as death, Trenchcoat Man reached into his coat, pulling something gleaming—something metal . . .

  Michael blinked.

  It was a flash drive.

  Detenweiler snatched it. “I’m disappointed, Mr. Ho. You’ve been so focused. So driven. You reminded me of my . . . ” Detenweiler shook himself, as if dismissing an unpleasant memory. Whatever it was, it worsened his temper. “You can’t not sign. NyxCorp will have both our heads. I’m printing a fresh document, which you—will—sign.”

  He stormed out, Trenchcoat Man following.

  Michael stared at the ruined contract. What on earth was going on? His pen leapt back to the torn page, scribbling over and over: Christina Christina Christina—

  Drew, Michael’s gum-chewing temp in muscle-shirt and jeans, poked his head in. “Everything okay, boss? NyxCorp people were gunning for the copier like it stole their cookies.” Drew was eccentric, but he’d been a lifesaver these past weeks. He popped a gum-bubble, eyeing Michael’s still-writing hand. “Cool pen. Where’d you get it?”

  “It was on my desk . . . Wait—you see what I’m writing?”

  “Sure. Who’s Christina?”

  “She’s . . . ” Michael shook his head. This had to be some sabotage plan. “Did you put this pen on my desk, Drew? Are you trying to destroy this merger?”

  “I got hired because of this NyxCorp deal!” Drew protested. “Why would I ruin it?” But his gaze returned to Michael’s still-scribbling hand. His gum-chewing slowed.

  Christina Christina Christina—

  “Wait. The pen’s writing? By itself? I’ve . . . heard of something like that.”

  Michael’s hand was growing sore and memories of Christina made his chest tight. “Do tell, Drew.”

  “That’s a magic pen.”

  Michael snorted. “Oh, come on.”

  “Word is, a pen’s been floating around the big firms. A cursed pen that, once held, won’t release the holder.”

  Come to think of it, Michael had heard that story. He’d dismissed it as office chatter. Ghosts haunting skyscrapers. Mummified CEOs inside walls—that kind of silliness.

  But a pen supposedly ruined the Ziatic-Hitoshi pact and its relaxed pollutant restrictions. And . . . a pen allegedly made the Terrodyne CFO swear off writing utensils—and its pharmaceutical price hike.

  So . . . a pen was offing controversial deals? A cursed pen?

  “It makes you confront your deepest secrets,” Drew continued. “You can’t stop writing until you confess. Who’s Christina, boss? You . . . liquidate her or something?”

  “What?” Michael spluttered. “That’s ridiculous—”

  “AH-HA! The lad doth protest too much—”

  “It’s the lady doth protest too much—”

  Christina Christina Christina Mike, is that you?

  Michael’s pen went still.

  “Don’t answer,” Drew whispered, wide-eyed. “It’s a cursed pen, remember?”

  Michael flipped the torn contract to its clean backside. Christina?

  The ink faded. The pen moved again. Mike?

  It was Christina’s handwriting.

  Michael wrote, How’s this happening?

  He thought he felt her hesitance as the pen scribed her answer.

  You won’t believe this, but . . . I found a strange pen.

  They underwent a Q&A via pen—where they’d met (tour in Japan), favorite color (his was pink), college majors (corporate law), first date (an airport bench).

  Drew scowled, popping another gum-bubble. “I dunno, boss.”

  “She’s answered every question. In her handwriting.” And Michael thought he smelled her perfume. Like she was sitting next to him. It made his heart skip. “I want to talk to her before I sign. I used to ask Christina everything.”

  Michael could’ve used her advice with this NyxCorp deal. Not because she’d become a bigshot manager herself, but because, with her, he’d considered things besides the money line.

  Drew waved at Michael’s abandoned offices. “Before today, you couldn’t sign fast enough. Now you’ve found your conscience?”

  Or maybe Michael’s conscience had been there all along. He’d just needed reminding.

  The pen stirred. Mike? I’m in the city. I’m coming to you.

  She was in the city? Didn’t she live overseas?

  As if reading his thoughts, the pen scribed, I’ve been traveling since I got this pen. It wants me to find you.

  Michael frowned. How long have you had it?

  Two weeks, she wrote.

  Michael didn’t wait for the ink to fade. Why didn’t you email? To say you were coming?

  Would you have answered?

  She had a point. He’d written many letters to her, only to delete them.

  Detenweiler’s voice sounded from the hallway. “Mr. Ho? Ready your pen!”

  “That’s it,” Michael said quietly. “I’m going downstairs.”

  “The protesters’ll kill you!” Drew argued. “Besides, how do you know whoever you’re writing to is real?”

  “I . . . ” Michael didn’t know, did he? But . . . that ache in his chest since he’d written her name . . . “Drew, you said this pen makes me confront my secrets. Well, how I feel about Christina is real. And I can’t sign until I face those feelings.”

  Detenweiler and Trenchcoat Man re-entered the boardroom, Detenweiler laying his newly printed contract onto the table.

  With a last look at Drew, Michael took a breath and stood. “I’m not signing.”

  “Oh, yes, you are!” Detenweiler snarled. “The police downstairs are in NyxCorp’s employ. You can’t—HEY!”

  Drew had snatched the contract, vaulting the table as Trenchcoat Man strode forward.

  “Drew!” Michael yelled. “Let me handle this!”

  “Go, boss!”

  “But—”

  “GO!” Drew ran out the boardroom’s far door, Detenweiler huffing after.

  Trenchcoat Man turned to Michael. He reached into his coat . . .

  “Oh, hell!” Michael bolted for the exit.

  Michael scrawled onto his palm as the elevator descended: What did you see in Kevin?

  The pen scribed Christina’s reply after the ink faded: That’s actually none of your business, but he was a gentleman. And he was there.

  The elevator shuddered to a stop on Floor 17. Detenweiler must’ve found the execut
ive controls. Michael opened a panel and punched in a code. The doors opened and Michael ran through.

  Internship was only seven months, Michael wrote. I would’ve come back.

  But you didn’t, did you?

  Well, you were involved, so I extended! Michael panted along the stairwell he was descending. His late-night searches hadn’t revealed everything. So . . . how is Kevin?

  We broke up.

  This didn’t surprise Michael. Their high-power lifestyles were busy, flurried, solitary.

  I’m approaching your building’s entrance, Christina wrote. I’m with someone. He’s helping me navigate the crowd.

  Michael sighed. So there was someone else.

  He wiped sweat off his brow as he descended. You’ve been holding that pen for two weeks? Can’t let go?

  No, I can let go. But the pen always returns to my pocket. It appears in my hand. It writes about you.

  Michael jumped onto the lobby landing right when the elevator dinged, spilling Detenweiler and Trenchcoat Man.

  The pen yanked Michael straight at them. Detenweiler yelped as Trenchcoat Man pulled him aside.

  “Stop!” Michael yelled, but the pen dragged him into the outside chaos.

  Police manned barricades as protesters waved placards bearing crossed-out NyxCorp logos. “HELL NO, WE WON’T GO! MIKE HO, HE SHOULD GO!” Everyone booed on seeing him.

  The pen pulled him onwards.

  “Boss!”

  That was . . . Drew? Waving his arms? How’d he gotten down so fast? And next to him, was . . . Christina. Their eyes locked, and Michael’s heart throbbed. She looked well. Holding her own pen, Christina surged forth.

  A protester leapt for Michael. “Sign your devil’s pact yet, Mr. Ho?”

  But a giant arm grabbed the protester. Trenchcoat Man nodded at Michael, and the pen pulled Michael again.

  He skidded to a halt before Christina. So many thoughts struggled against his lips, how glad he was she’d come, how he didn’t care about Kevin, and . . . had Trenchcoat Man nodded?, and . . . why was Drew here?—everything coming out in a shout, “I WISH I’D NEVER TAKEN THAT INTERNSHIP! I WISH I’D STAYED WITH YOU!”

  The knot in Michael’s stomach loosened. The protesters immediately around him stopped waving placards. They nudged other protesters and the booing lessened.

  It seemed Christina’s pen needed her to confess, too, secrets that also kept her up nights, heavy words now demanding release—“I HATED YOUR VALENTINE’S PRESENT!”

  Michael blinked. “What?”

  “That necklace with the dolphins was hideous! I never had the heart to tell you!”

  Drew winced and mouthed, Ouch. Michael gaped. He’d handmade that necklace. “Uh . . . ”

  “And your sushi-burritos were disgusting.”

  “But . . . you . . . always ate them?”

  “I bagged them when you weren’t looking, then composted them.”

  “You composted the sushi-burritos I made every Sunday?” Michael asked faintly.

  Drew popped a gum-bubble, and Michael rounded on him. “You’re Christina’s friend? You’re dating her?”

  Christina looked aghast. “What? Drew’s my secretary. He advised me to find you . . . ”

  “Drew’s my secretary,” Michael said. “He started working for me when . . . ”

  When Michael’s staff left. At just the right time.

  “Ahem.” It was the protester Trenchcoat Man had grabbed, looking unconcerned as Trenchcoat Man marched him forward. “You two obviously have history, but you need to stop talking around the problem.” Some protesters murmured agreement; others hushed them. Arm still locked, the protester turned to Trenchcoat Man. “Tell ‘em, buddy.”

  Trenchcoat Man released him. “I can’t, Jared. It’s something they have to do themselves.”

  The protester—Jared—who’d apparently become first-name-basis cozy with Trenchcoat Man—rubbed his arm. “My man Buddy here won’t say it, but—”

  “Wait.” Michael turned to Trenchcoat Man. “Your name’s Buddy?” At the crowd’s outskirts, Detenweiler was speaking animatedly with a police sergeant.

  “He’s with me, boss. We’re from the Order of Magic Pens. We follow the Pens to those who need them.” Drew nodded, as if this explanation clarified everything.

  Michael blinked, then turned back to Trenchcoat Man. “Your name’s Buddy?”

  Trenchcoat Man—Buddy—nodded, but Christina grabbed Michael’s head, and he forgot everything. Suspicious secretaries, unexpected names, destructive contracts—all of it vanished. He felt only the gentleness of her hands on his face.

  “I had every right to move on, Mike.”

  This was his chance to come clean. No more regretful nights and hesitant internet searches. “You did. When we decided to focus on our jobs, I should’ve said the truth . . . that . . . I loved you . . . ”

  “I don’t feel the same way anymore,” Christina said. “I mean, I still love you . . . just not . . . ”

  Michael smiled sadly. “I see.”

  The crowd sighed collectively. “AWWW . . . ”

  Michael’s and Christina’s pens clattered onto the ground. Drew and Buddy grabbed them.

  Jared patted Michael’s arm sympathetically. “Can you at least handle this merger?”

  But Detenweiler had finished his sidebar with the police. “SERGEANT! Arrest these protesters! We have every right to conduct business in peace!”

  Police in riot gear, wielding shields and truncheons, advanced grimly. They’d used the distraction to gear up and take flanking positions. The crowd hissed, hefting placards to meet them. Even Jared rushed to join the fray.

  “I’m getting too old for this,” Drew groaned. He held up his Pen. “How about someplace warm at least, like the Caribbean? There’s gotta be people to help there.”

  The Pen quivered, and Drew looked hopeful—but it flew into Michael’s grasp. Uh-oh. Michael shook his pen-hand, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “Odd,” Buddy said. “Detenweiler’s my assignment, as you and Christina were Drew’s.”

  “Um, Trenchcoat—ah—Buddy? Shouldn’t you be handling Detenweiler? If he’s your assignment?”

  “The Pen wants you to solve this, Mr. Ho.”

  Michael supposed that made sense. He was responsible for this mess. “What do I do, though? I’m not . . . of the Order of Magic Pens.”

  Buddy watched Detenweiler exhorting officers as they shoved protesters. “I don’t know. Usually, we watch for the right moment to hand over Magic Pens. That’s the tricky part about what we do. We can’t tell our assigned people everything. It might scare them away. They need to make their own realizations.”

  “But Drew flat-out told me I had a Magic Pen.”

  “I told you enough to get you thinking, boss. Every assignment’s different.”

  “Sign,” Christina said. “You need to sign the contract.”

  “You know how many people NyxCorp’s going to fire?”

  “Better than a riot,” Christina replied.

  Michael sighed. She was right. “Detenweiler! I’ll sign!”

  Detenweiler yelled, “STOP!” Everyone froze.

  The NyxCorp executive marched over, sergeant in tow. The sergeant offered his back. Detenweiler smoothed the contract over it.

  But Michael couldn’t sign. The Pen wouldn’t let him.

  “Mr. Ho,” Detenweiler said warningly.

  Could Michael sign with his other hand? It would be clumsy, but he doubted NyxCorp cared. “Lend me your pen, Detenweiler.”

  Detenweiler rolled his eyes and held it out, but Michael’s Magic Pen jolted him before he could take it. “Ow!”

  Christina grabbed it. “You okay—AH!”

  Michael rubbed his hand, as Christina did hers. What had Drew said about the Order? We follow the Pens to those who need them.

  He took the Pen back from Christina, feeling again its buzzing energy. It showed him a woman, college-aged . . . From the look in Christina’s
eyes, Michael knew she’d seen her, too.

  The young woman Detenweiler had been thinking about all day. The real reason behind his foul temper.

  I’m disappointed, Mr. Ho. You’ve been so focused. So driven. You reminded me of my . . .

  Michael turned to the harried-looking NyxCorp executive, focusing on the circles under his eyes. “It’s been forever since you’ve spoken to your daughter.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Switch pens with me. Mine isn’t working.” It was meant for someone who needed it. And Michael no longer needed it.

  Detenweiler snatched the Magic Pen, and Michael gave his signature. Jared’s face fell; the crowd groaned. “Sorry,” Michael muttered.

  Detenweiler grabbed the signed contract tiredly. He frowned at the Pen he held.

  Buddy and Drew started walking, beckoning for Michael and Christina to follow.

  “We failed,” Buddy said after they’d moved out of earshot. “We were supposed to stop the merger.”

  Drew grunted. “Means we’re stuck here.”

  Behind them, Detenweiler was shaking his Pen, trying to dislodge it.

  In mid-step, Christina reached into her pocket, pulling out . . . another Magic Pen.

  Drew popped a gum-bubble. “Huh. Seems the Pens are extending an invitation.”

  “We have to find Detenweiler’s daughter,” Christina murmured.

  Michael reached into his pocket, finding his own Pen. “Yeah . . . we do . . . ”

  Detenweiler was yelling now. The protesters raised signs again, yelling with redoubled fury. “HELL NO, WE WON’T GO!”

  Michael looked to Christina. “We’re . . . joining the Order? What about our careers? Our lives?”

  “Did you like your job, Mike?” she asked. “Did you ever like it?”

  Michael considered her question, then looked back at his empty skyrise. “I hated it.”

  “I’m an acquisitions director,” Christina said. “Aggressive acquisitions. But I’ve always wanted to do more. I feel the daughter’s presence. She’s very angry.”

  “And Mr. Detenweiler’s very sad,” Buddy said. “Reuniting this family could help solve this NyxCorp problem. I’ll watch him until his daughter’s found.” He made for Detenweiler, who was now red-faced, screaming at police and protesters alike.