- Kyle Valtier’s POV -
Her hair was black—jet black—short and ssy like a crow’s nest that had never known a comb or warm water.
It fluttered randomly over her forehead, which was sared with mud.
As for her eyes... my God, those eyes.
They were black, very wide, staring directly into my face from below.
Despite the tears filling them, and despite the pain making her body tremble... they were not the eyes of a child.
They carried not a single trace of childish innocence, nor even a flicker of the panicked fear of novice thieves who cry when caught red-handed and beg for rcy.
After her first scream, she did not cry out loud.
She did not continue sobbing or plead for rcy, nor did she even try to pull her hand free from my grip, because she instinctively understood that any movent would result in her entire arm being broken.
She bit down hard on her lower lip, almost drawing blood, struggling desperately—impressively—to swallow her pain, trying her hardest to appear brave in front of the nightmare that had seized her.
She didn’t blink.
She stood there, in the wet sludge, staring at with rigid steadiness, with a strange coldness, and a boldness that didn’t suit a creature that barely reached my waist.
As if she were the one holding , not the other way around.
Our gazes t. —the nightmare of Elysium who betrayed Alpha Squad and escaped the regional kings—and her, a filthy street child from the bottom of Zirathion.
The silence stretched for two seconds.
I waited for her to break, or to wet herself in fear like grown n do in front of .
But she surprised with a move that made my eyebrow rise in complete astonishnt.
She raised her other free hand, the one she had been hiding inside her torn coat pocket, and with all the coldness of this artificial world, pointed her small finger—covered in scratches from old wounds—toward a worn-out wooden stall beside us.
The stall displayed cheap chanical toys and used electronic figurines running on rusted gears.
The girl spoke.
And her tone was not that of a shaky child; it was serious, firm, desperately trying to hide the trembling of her vocal cords, and commanding in a surreal way that provoked both laughter and irritation.
"Buy... buy that toy,"
she said without any preamble, pointing at an ugly one-eyed chanical monkey.
I blinked twice. Did I hear that correctly? A thief caught red-handed, her wrist nearly crushed, demanding that I buy her a gift?
"Excuse ?" I said, my voice laced with dangerous mockery, tightening my grip a milliter on her frail wrist as a warning, to see if she would break.
"Little mouse, you do realize I can shatter your arm with a snap of my fingers, don’t you?"
She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second from a flash of pain, but she didn’t blink after that.
She didn’t look at her trapped arm.
Instead, she continued staring into my eyes through my tinted glasses, and spoke again in her small voice—but terrifyingly logical for her age:
"You’re strange. And you’re not from this neighborhood," she said, her eyes sweeping briefly over my coat before returning to my face.
"Your clothes are too clean, without any patches, and your shoes don’t have a single speck of mud despite this sludge. You’re rich—and arrogant."
She paused for a second to take a shaky breath, then dropped her bomb:
"If you don’t buy it for now, and let go of my hand... I’ll scream at the top of my lungs and claim you’re trying to kidnap . You’re a rich stranger, and I’m a girl from the neighborhood. Then... the local boys, factory workers, and the scum of this market will gather. You may be strong, but they’re dozens—hundreds. They’ll beat you badly, tear your beautiful coat, and strip everything from your pockets before Zirathion’s police arrive—who won’t believe you anyway. The toy costs a few digital credits. Your coat costs thousands."
She fell silent, leaving her threat hanging in the cold air, her chin raised in defiance despite the frozen tears in her eyes.
I stood there, frozen.
My mind—the one that toyed with Saint Ilarious and surpassed Valisera’s extraordinary intelligence—was analyzing what had just happened.
Her threat was childish in form, but in substance it was built on a precise, tactical, and perfect analysis of the unforgiving environnt of lower Zirathion that shows no rcy to outsiders—especially the wealthy.
She hadn’t read my aura, nor analyzed my aetheric energy like other monsters, nor realized that I could annihilate this entire street in three seconds without dirtying my hands.
Instead, she used the oldest and most effective weapon street children possess:
Scandal, drawing attention, and exploiting the anger of the starving, oppressed class against the velvet class.
I looked at her small face, flushed with both fear and boldness.
I sighed in annoyance and completely loosened my grip, releasing her wrist.
Her wrist bore a dark red mark in the shape of my fingers, but she imdiately pulled it back and hid it behind her back.
"Fine... fine. You win, you extortionist little mouse," I muttered with a sideways smirk.
I slipped my hand into my pocket and pulled out a magnetic digital paynt chip.
I passed the chip over the vendor’s old, worn-out paynt device and transferred an amount equal to a hundred tis the price of the cheap plastic toy.
The man nearly fainted from the number that appeared on his cracked screen.
"Keep the change, and give her the miserable monkey before she changes her mind and asks to buy the whole market," I said irritably.
The vendor handed the toy to the girl, his hands trembling violently.
The girl snatched the toy with the agility of a small monkey and imdiately stuffed it—professionally—into her oversized torn coat pocket so it wouldn’t be stolen from her.
I expected to see a smile, a flash of joy, or at least a sigh of relief at escaping injury.
But she didn’t say a single word of thanks.
She didn’t even smile.
She rely gave one last look of contempt—a victor’s gaze that scorned bourgeois stupidity—then...
Spat!
She spat on the wet ground near my clean shoe, in a gesture of pure defiance and disdain, and imdiately turned to run.
She ran at insane speed, disappearing among the waves of passersby, slipping between the legs of workers like a small ghost swallowed by the dark alleys of Zirathion within seconds.
I stood watching the spot where she had spat, then looked at the crowd and chuckled softly.
"In the end... even radiant Zirathion has its alleys, its filth, and its little demons."
I continued my stroll through the market with a strange sense of ease.
I bought several trivial things I didn’t need—technological tools, genetically modified fruits, and so aged wine—then quickly returned to the skyscraper.
When I entered my luxurious suite, everything was quiet.
"Activate absolute protocol and spaceti isolation," I ordered the AI, closing the penthouse door behind .
I finally closed my eyes as I stood in the middle of the lavish hall.
The hideout was secure, fortified with endless layers of isolation enchantnts and security systems that had cost a fortune.
Neither Kaiser, nor Elysium, nor the past could reach here.
I took off my coat and threw myself onto the massive circular bed covered in spider silk.
I sank into the covers and surrendered to a very deep sleep.
But... in the world of the waking, sleep is not always a path to rest.
Sotis, it is a terrifying stage for cosmic ssages.
Reviews
All reviews (0)