I woke up glued to the sheets and smiling like an idiot. Which is how you know last night happened. Lightning. Cougars. Terrible decisions with great benefits.
The bed squeaked like it wanted the whole building to gossip. Fine. Let them.
"Love my life." I muttered, pawing for my phone and finding an empty wallet instead. Depressing. "Good morning to you too."
I staggered to the sink, chugged stale tap water like it was vintage mana, then braced on the counter and said, "Status."
The window popped crisp and clinical:
[Status Window]
Na: Ethan Cross
Level: 8 HP: 180 / 180
MP: 0 / 0
Strength: 42
Agility: 29
Endurance: 14
Intelligence: 6
Wisdom: 5
Luck: ???
Skills:
— Absolute Regeneration (SSS-Rank)
— Lightning Step (SSS-Rank) [New]
[Level Progress: 100 / 800]
I whistled. "Look at you. Stupid numbers for an F-rank."
My phone finally found itself under a pile of dirty laundry. It lit up to a wall of notifications. Clips from Lot C. "F-RANK SOLO CLEARS A-RANK?!" "GUILDS IN SHOCK." "WHO IS ETHAN CROSS?" Thanks for asking, I’m nobody, please stop.
There was a video paused at my face as I walked out of the gate—blood-crusted. A kid in a towel cape in the corner going WHOA. The caption said sothing subtle like FREAK OR HERO? Internet already picked teams. Comnts were a warzone. I didn’t scroll.
Mara’s text sat on top: Saw the clips again. You good?
I typed: Alive. Will call later.
Three dots. Then nothing. She was probably at work, wrapping so idiot’s ribs who tried to suplex a dungeon boar. Idiot could’ve been two weeks ago.
I opened my wallet because I enjoy pain. Eight dollars stared back like a dare. Rent due soon. Pancakes a myth. Fa pays in headaches.
"Okay," I told the empty room. "We do the responsible thing. We check our shiny new cheat code. Then we find a job. Then we don’t die."
I looked at the tiny strip of apartnt I called a living room. Fifteen ters in here would put through a wall and into Mrs. Dobrev’s closet. She would not appreciate Lightning Step.
Alley, then.
I threw on clean-ish clothes, pald Fangpiercer from the table—warm hum, smug as ever—and headed down the stairs because the elevator hates joy. The slum air hit on the second floor landing: fried food, hot dust, cheap detergent, sobody’s morning fight with their TV.
Out back, the narrow alley was shaded by stacked balconies and laundry lines. A broken scooter leaned against the bricks like it had died of boredom. Good test lane.
"Okay," I said, because talking to yourself is healthy. "Fifteen ters. Three in a row. Don’t decapitate yourself on a clothesline."
I gripped the dagger. Sothing in the new skill reached and shook hands with Fangpiercer—bone-deep click, like a gear finally found its tooth. I thought step—
The world snapped.
No windup. No blur. Just: here → there. A whipcrack in my ears, an electric taste on my tongue, and I was seven paces deeper in the alley with laundry flapping like I’d kicked the day.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. "Holy shit."
Again. Step. The brick wall jumped toward , then I wasn’t there. I was by the dumpster that slled like last week’s noodles had tried to kill themselves.
Again. Step. I popped to the alley mouth and caught myself on the corner because montum and I are not friends. My heart skittered like pavent under cheap shoes. I looked back over the stretch I’d crossed and tried to imagine any C-rank trying to tag if I didn’t want to be tagged.
"Nobody panic," I told the pigeons. "He’s still F-rank."
I stepped once more out of pure greed and bumped shoulders with a guy carrying a crate of oranges. We yelped in stereo. Oranges went everywhere.
"Jesus—sorry—" I bent and grabbed what I could.
He frowned at my face, then at his scattered fruit. Recognition scrabbled across his features and almost found a hold. I gave him oranges and an apologetic smile that said please don’t post .
He grunted. "You buy two," he said, because capitalism.
I bought two. I do great under pressure.
Back upstairs, I ate an orange over the sink. Then I flopped into the chair that didn’t like and opened HunterNet.
HunterNet is where dignity goes to bargain. Official guild contracts live there. So do the weird ones. Escorts, sweeps, salvage, "please retrieve my son from a D-rank because he lied to ," the works.
The feed had "For You" banners now—great, the algorithm had opinions. First was a glamour gig on Guild Row: "Appearance fee, light sparring, influencer collab." Hard pass. Next, a cleanup job: "Post-breach ratters, Mana Waste Facility 3B. Hazard pay. Bring your own respirator." Also pass, unless I wanted my lungs to unionize.
I filtered to Paid Now and Under B-Rank because I am a man of taste and debt. Jobs shuffled. One pinned itself to the top like it wanted .
Quarantine Sweep — D-289 Aftershock
Party Size: 3/4 (seeking 4th)
Location: Dungeon District South, Lot D
Ti: Today, 11:00
Requirents: mobility, lee finisher, not annoying
Payout: 2,000 credits cores split
Notes: bring your own gear. inspectors on-site. no show = blacklist.
Contact:JaxRook (D-Rank), Hana (Support), Mikey (E-Rank Shield)
"Not annoying," I read aloud. "So I’m out."
Two thousand credits was... rent, food, maybe a new jacket that didn’t bleed when I looked at it.
I scrolled their profiles. Jax looked like a man held together by tape and pride. Sword, bad haircut, thumbs-up in every photo like he’d been born endorsing noodles. Hana wore a support harness and an expression that said she had patience—until she didn’t. Mikey was a kid. Round face. Cheap shield. Eyes doing that thing where fear and eagerness get confused and hold hands.
My stomach did a little twist. I knew that face. I’d seen it in the mirror two weeks ago. Still saw it, if I looked quick.
I tapped Apply.
HunterNet tried to upsell on insurance. I hit Remind Later because I love gambling with my spine. A chat bubble popped open with Jax’s na on it.
JaxRook: you the 4th?
: depends who’s asking
JaxRook: jax. sword. we need legs. you fast?
: fast enough
JaxRook: rank?
: F (don’t yell)
JaxRook: idc. just don’t fold
: i move, i stab, i stay upright
JaxRook: weapon?
: dagger. an one
JaxRook: good. 11:00, Lot D. ping when close
: on it
Hana: i’m hana. support. be on ti
: yes ma’am
Hana: bring water carbs. waiver on site
: i’ve got oranges and poor life choices
Hana: keep the oranges. leave the other thing ho
: no promises
Mikey: hey! first sweep?
: not my first bad idea
Hana: focus, please
JaxRook: see you at 11
I set the phone down and stared at the wall like it owed money. Two thousand credits. A clean sweep. Inspectors. People. I could pretend to be normal for three hours and get paid for it. Maybe I’d even get to try Lightning Step on sothing that deserved it instead of an orange man.
My stomach reminded I hadn’t eaten anything solid since a milf decided to ruin my thighs last night. I made instant noodles because I am a chef.
I opened the closet and looked at my gear. Gear is a generous term. Jacket that had been upgraded to holy by Selene’s hands ripping it off. Boots with soles that prayed at speed bumps. Gloves cut wrong. I took them anyway. Fangpiercer slid into my palm like it had been waiting for the spot and would bite anyone else who tried. The runes along the blade breathed cold, then settled.
"Be boring," I told the knife. "Sexy optional."
The knife did not care.
Phone buzz. Another ssage—unknown number.
Unknown: be careful today
I frowned. "Who—"
It followed with a dot-dot-dot that never beca a ssage. The number vanished from the thread like it had never existed. Great. Ghost texting. Love that for .
I finished the noodles, licked the salt off my fingers because flavor is flavor, then checked my face in the cracked mirror. I still looked like a guy you’d hand a flyer to, not a guy you’d put on a poster. Dark circles. Hair doing that thing where it acts like an animal and requires zoning permits. I splashed water. The band ward again like it approved of hygiene.
I packed my sad gear in my sad pack and checked my sad wallet again because I enjoy pain loops. Eight dollars still glared. I stuffed the oranges in on top because victory snacks.
As I reached for the door, my phone lit up with a news alert: CENTRAL STATENT: "HUNTER CROSS UNDER OBSERVATION, NOT A THREAT." The photo was , squinting into daylight like a raccoon soone had taught to steal cores.
"Not a threat," I told the lock. "I’m adorable."
The hallway outside was its usual symphony: pipes arguing, a baby trying to kill a whistle, Mr. Flores swearing in two languages at his coffee machine. On the stairs, Mrs. Dobrev squinted at .
Mrs. Dobrev was halfway down with a towel turban and murder slippers. She squinted at my wristband, then my face.
"You were on the news," she said. Half-accusing, half-worried.
"Deepfake," I said. "I’m taller on TV."
"Did you eat?"
"Yeah."
She stared. I cracked in two seconds.
"...No."
She shoved a wrapped pastry into my hand and thumped my shoulder. "Eat before you fall over on my stairs. I’m not calling an ambulance for your drama."
"Yes, ma’am."
"And don’t embarrass the building."
"I’ll try to stay average."
"Impossible." She clomped past .
I unwrapped the pastry and inhaled it over three bites.
Outside, Arcadia was itself: bus brakes squealing, river throwing light at glass ribs, street grills huffing at smoke, guild trucks sharking toward the quarantine lines. A billboard on Guild Row had a slow-rolling video of so S-rank smiling with perfect teeth, selling a sword line like toothpaste. I flipped it off. I felt better.
I texted Mara: Alive. Going to a sweep. Will call after.
Three dots. Then: Be careful. Boring would make my day.
"Working on it," I said, shoving the phone away.
My feet took toward the Dungeon District because that’s where money falls out of holes and tries to eat you. The city rings showed themselves if you looked—polish around Central, ambition around Guild Row, brick and humans in the middle where Mara lives, and my edge where the slums grip the fence like a kid outside a carnival. Beyond that, the gates. Fences. Inspectors. Bad ideas.
I cut down an alley to save ti, pald Fangpiercer because my instincts enjoy living, and forced myself not to Step because if I got addicted to teleporting I’d forget stairs existed and die on a curb.
Lot D’s fence rose three blocks later—high chain, rune posts humming like beehives. Inspectors in gray watched a portable scanner chew on a cart of cores. A couple low-rank parties clustered by the check-in table, comparing scars and debt.
Jax spotted first. Sword on his back, haircut tragic, grin like a billboard for stubborn. He waved with his whole arm."You the mobility?"
"Depends," I said. "You the money?"
He barked a laugh and clapped my shoulder like we’d already been dumb together in a past life. "Ethan, right? I’m Jax. That’s Hana." He pointed at the woman in support rig, hair tied neat, gloves clean, posture sharper than my rent notices. "That’s Mikey." A kid hunched behind a shield with a dent like it was his emotional support turtle.
Hana gave a once-over that weighed , asured , and filed under "temporary headache." The clean clinic sll rolling off her kit. She had thighs that could’ve cracked helts, hips packed tight in support gear that sohow managed to look both practical and unfair, and a chest strapped down just enough to tease what the armor wasn’t showing. Her face? Sharp cheekbones, lips glossed with focus, eyes that looked like they’d seen a hundred idiots die and weren’t impressed I was still breathing.
Younger would’ve fumbled just rembering my na. Current ? I kept catching myself filing her under the sa tab as Mara and Selene: older, hotter, absolutely in charge. Apparently that’s my thing now.
A neat little box flickered bottom-left, smug as always:
[Note: Carrier’s attraction paraters adjusted. Target preference: mature won.]
I sighed under my breath. "Yeah, thanks, system. Totally normal log to drop in the middle of introductions."
Mikey tried to stand taller and made his shield squeak. "You... uh. Are you the guy from—"
"Lots of guys from lots of things," I said. "Don’t believe everything on your feed."
He shut his mouth, eyes bright anyway.
Jax shoved a waiver at . "Sign in blood. Kidding. Ink is fine."
The inspector behind the table glanced at , tapped her tablet, and nodded like she’d just checked out library books. "Observation confird," she said. "Stay within periter. No solo entries."
"Wouldn’t dream of it," I lied.
We leaned over the table while Hana sketched the plan on a printed map that had seen too many coffee stains. "Aftershock sweep," she said. "Residual hounds and crawlers. Maybe a brute that got out during the collapse. We keep it tight, we keep it safe, we go ho."
"Safe," I repeated. "My middle na."
Jax side-eyed . "Pretty sure your middle na is ’reckless.’"
"Depends on the day," I said.
Hana didn’t smile but her eyes softened like she couldn’t help it. "Positions," she said. "Jax leads. Mikey on shield. I keep you idiots alive. Ethan—"
"Mobility," I said. "Clean stragglers. Finish what you crack open."
"Exactly," she said. "Stay in sight. Don’t overextend."
"Would never," I said. Fangpiercer humd in my palm like it had a punchline.
The inspector waved us forward. The ribbed arch over the lot gate groaned as it unlocked, blue roots flickering beneath the tal like veins waking up. The air changed—dungeon air, clean and wrong, like a hospital that learned to hunt.
I rolled my shoulders, felt Lightning Step tug again like a dog at a leash, and told my body, "Be boring."
My body said, "Hard mode."
We stepped in.
And for a second, before anything bad happened, I let myself grin because I had numbers that didn’t make sense, a knife that loved , a speed skill that was basically cheating, and eight dollars in my wallet.
Rent didn’t care about SSS-rank.
But rent was about to et Lightning Step.
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