"In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity." — Sun Tzu
Alaric bought dinner on the walk back to the Rusted Oak—a pair of steaming pork buns and a paper cup of broth that smelled more of salt than meat. The vendor eyed him suspiciously; no one in the Grey Quarter trusted a hooded young man with a hunter's focus. But credits were credits. The paper bag exchanged hands, and Alaric melted into the throng.
He took the long route home, winding through rickety skybridges and side streets lit by leaking coolant pipes. Twice he paused to check reflections in darkened windows. No cloaked silhouette. No phantom footsteps. Still, his danger sense throbbed like a low drumbeat, reminding him the watcher existed. Maybe the masked courier, maybe someone else entirely.
The boarding-house hallway smelled of boiled cabbage and bleach. Room 6B's alarm string and bottle-cap chimes lay undisturbed. Inside, the single lamp cast a pool of amber on peeling wallpaper. Lia sat cross-legged on the mattress reading a dog-eared romance novel by flashlight. Her silver-white hair spilled around her shoulders like moonlight.
She looked up, eyes bright. "You're late."
Alaric held up the paper bag. "Bribery."
She accepted a bun, tearing into it with the enthusiasm of someone who'd known true hunger. "Mmm. Pork—or something pretending to be pork."
He managed a smile and sank onto the edge of the bed. "How was your day?"
"Crowded." She nudged the novel aside. "Griggs let me use the communal kitchen. I… may have threatened a guy who tried to get handsy."
His expression hardened. "Name?"
She waved him off. "Handled, big brother. I'm tougher than I look." The edge to her voice softened. "But thank you for worrying."
Alaric exhaled slowly. Lia's fierce loyalty was both shield and blade; she'd bleed for him without hesitation. He didn't want her bleeding at all.
"I got work," he said, lowering his voice. He outlined the courier job in broad strokes—no mention of the system, only the surface facts: package retrieved, delivered, credits earned.
Lia listened, chewing thoughtfully. "And you're sure the fixer paid in full?"
"Already transferred." He slid a cred-chip onto the table: meager, but enough to cover rent for a week and stock a pantry. "Tomorrow you and I go shopping for real supplies. Then"—he hesitated—"we'll look into enrollment."
Her eyes widened, star-bright. "High school? Here?"
He nodded. "You deserve a normal routine. Friends. Maybe a library that isn't rotting."
A faint blush tinted her cheeks. "As long as we're together."
Alaric's chest tightened with an emotion he refused to name. "Always."
They ate in companionable silence until Lia set her empty cup aside and asked, "What's next for you?"
He pulled the burner phone from his pocket, flipping it over. "Kieran said more jobs if I proved reliable. I need contacts, intel, gear. And… I think someone is tailing me."
Lia's expression shifted from curiosity to lethal focus. "Who?"
"Don't know yet. They're good—better than street thugs."
She reached for the combat knife on his belt. "Then I'll—"
He caught her wrist gently. "Not yet. Let me scout first."
Reluctantly, she relaxed. "Fine. But if they touch you—"
"I know." He squeezed her hand. "I promise, I'll be careful."
Later that night
Moonlight filtered through the cracked window, painting silver bars across the floor. Lia slept curled against the wall, one arm wrapped possessively around Alaric's coat. Her breathing was soft, peaceful—yet even asleep she angled her body toward him, as though guarding him from nightmares.
Alaric sat at the rickety desk, burner phone disassembled, battery out. He had already transferred the new credits to a secondary account Tavros set up—a digital hole big enough to hide a fortune in, provided the Syndicate never found it.
He opened his notebook, scribbling observations: Crimson Jack patrol routes, ventilation layouts, the masked courier's build and gait. Each page a step toward future dominance.
[Available Stat Points: 0]Strength E, Agility E+, Vitality E+
The incremental upgrade felt small, but tonight his body had moved with a new ease—vaulting crates, crawling vents without a groan from old injuries. If he could push Vitality to D one day, bullet wounds might knit in hours, not days.
A soft click drew his attention. Lia's eyes were open, luminous in the half-light. "Couldn't sleep," she whispered. "Nightmares."
He set the notebook down. "Same old?"
"Different." She sat up, letting the coat fall. "I saw you lying in an alley… bleeding. I couldn't reach you."
Alaric swallowed. "Just a dream."
She crawled across the mattress, stopping inches from him. "Promise me you won't leave me alone in this city."
"I swear." He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "We'll survive together."
Her gaze lingered on his lips before she ducked her head quickly, embarrassment—or something—warming her pale skin. "Good."
They sat quietly until her breathing slowed again and she drifted off. Alaric returned to his notes, but his mind replayed the alley vision she described. Premonition? Or simply fear manifesting in her dreams?
Either way, he couldn't afford mistakes.
Just before dawn
He left Lia sleeping and slipped outside. Cool predawn air smelled faintly of ozone—Thunder Rails overhead crackled as freight mag-cars powered up. He kept to quiet streets until he reached a public holo-net kiosk, patched together with duct tape and hope. It flickered to life, projecting grainy headlines: corporate mergers, celebrity scandals, gang raids in the Eastern Rings.
One smaller report caught his eye: "Crimson Jacks Leadership in Turmoil After Missing Shipment." No details, but he could guess. The case he'd delivered likely contained something irreplaceable.
Power rippled in information. Maybe Kieran's network was bigger than he'd thought.
He turned away—and froze. Across the street, leaning casually against a lamppost, stood the cloaked silhouette. Same height, same stillness as before.
Alaric's pulse hammered. He slipped into an alley, vaulted a garbage bin, and sprinted across a narrow courtyard. Footsteps echoed behind him—calm, measured, relentless. He ducked into a dead-end loading dock and spun, knife flashing out.
The alley mouth was empty. No pursuer. Only swirling dust beneath the streetlamp.
Yet he felt watched. Judged.
He sheathed the blade and backed away, chest heaving. Whoever they were, they toyed with him. Testing.
A familiar anime quote drifted through his mind, half mocking, half encouraging: "The moment you think you're safe is when the predator strikes." He didn't recall which show—maybe Hunter x Hunter—but the sentiment fit.
He exhaled, steadying himself. "Not today."
Alaric retraced his route, making random turns to shake any remaining tail. Dawn light crept across Zenith's horizon as he slipped back into the Rusted Oak. Lia hadn't stirred; the room remained exactly as he left it.
He sat at the desk, shoulders tense but eyes bright. The hunter stalking him would strike eventually. When they did, he'd be ready—or he'd become stronger trying.
Because Lia's dream would never come true. He refused to die in some alley, forgotten by the city's next sunrise.
The Vale siblings had survived the slums. They would conquer Zenith… or burn trying.