The halo above my head whined like a dentist drill and then fried itself. Lights cracked, the rune coil spat sparks, and the whole room smelled like a wet dog chewing on a power socket.
A neat little box blinked into the corner of my vision:
[External intrusion detected.]
[System Integrity: Stable. External probe rejected.]
Great. Antivirus. Shame it didn't come with a get out of jail free feature.
I stayed strapped in, trying not to look like a guy about to explode. The white-coat at the console slapped kill-switches like a man swatting flies for rent money. A siren barked once, then choked itself silent. My wrists stayed pinned by straps that didn't trust me.
Murmurs leaked through the glass because someone had left a mic open.
"…zero mana profile…"
"…bound artifact refusal…"
"…live regeneration event, replay that—"
Yeah. Totally normal things to whisper about a trash F-rank.
I stared at the ceiling because staring at the suits would mean admitting this was about me.
"So," I said, voice dry, "I broke your toy. Do I get billed, or is that under warranty?"
Nobody laughed. Of course. Comedy was wasted on people with badges.
The gray-suit woman—the one who had dragged me in by the elbow—spoke up, calm like an ice bath. "Cut the coil. Shut it down."
The halo lifted, offended. Cold air breathed on my scalp.
"For the record," Gray-suit said, "Mr. Cross, did you manipulate the device?"
"Yes," I said. "With my mind." My eyebrows did the thing my common sense hated.
Somebody in the booth made the kind of sound you make when you swallow a laugh and regret it.
Another voice cut in, heavy, calm. A voice that didn't yell because walls did the yelling for him.
"He's unstable," the square-jawed examiner said. "If we let him out—"
Lot C. The circus. Phones, towel-cape kids, half of Arcadia already trying to decide if I was a hero or insane. He wasn't wrong. If they bagged me now, the gossip would kill them faster than I ever could.
Gray-suit's eyes skimmed me like a receipt she didn't trust, then nodded. "Unstrap him."
The straps clicked loose. My wrists felt hollow, like they'd forgotten what hands were for. I stood careful because careful equals living.
"Hunter Cross is released under observation," she said. Louder now, official. Words for my record.
"Observation." I flexed my wrist. "That's the polite word for leash, right?
They walked me through the bullpen. Heads lifted, whispers snapped like static.
"That's him.""F-rank, solo clear.""No survivors?""Bullshit."
I kept my eyes on the floor. My shoes squeaked once. The sound tried too hard.
The lobby opened—glass ribs, white tile, rune floor buzzing faint like bad radiators. Posters lined the walls: hunter idols, S-rank smiles, courage sold like toothpaste. One old banner hadn't been pulled yet. Lightning carved across a blade. A woman who didn't smile, who only dared you to waste her time.
Yeah. Teenage me remembered that one way too well.
We hit the doors. Daylight slapped my eyes raw. River shining. Town hall brick with a tie. The plaza was a low roar—hunters in knots of armor, civilians pressed against tape, guards with furniture faces. Phones everywhere. Gossip smelled thicker than fried dough.
Gray-suit stepped up to a mic that had materialized from nowhere. "For transparency," she said, "Hunter Cross is released under observation while Central completes its review. We are grateful for the bravery of all hunters who answer the call."
Translation: we don't know what he is, but we put a bell on him. Please clap.
"How'd he do it?" someone yelled."What's his rank?" another."Sponsored?" from a guy who looked like a villain's accountant.
That one broke me—I coughed a laugh that sounded like I'd swallowed a nail.
I didn't wave. Waving felt like stealing a life from someone smarter. I just stood there in blood-crusted clothes and pretended my ribcage hadn't been a percussion instrument an hour ago.
Fangpiercer hummed. Fantastic.
A new box slid into my vision.
[Potential Conquest Target Detected.]
[Compatibility: High.]
I blinked. "No," I whispered. "Not now. Not here."
The system, helpful as always, ignored me.
I looked, careful, without moving my head. Hunters. Suits. Civilians. Towel-cape kid clutching his foam sword like a secret. Hot dog cart with smoke like heaven and prices like rent. Buses screaming brakes on the far road. Guild Row's billboards throwing S-rank smiles into the sun. Nothing—
There.
Across the street. Leaning against a black guild car that looked allergic to fingerprints. Tall. Combat jacket open like rules didn't apply to her buttons. Black hair tied high, silver streaks at the temples that made the rest darker. Boots planted quiet like the sidewalk carried her.
She wasn't looking at me.
She was watching the crowd, patient,
Then her eyes slid and found mine.
Storm gray. The exact color of windows right before rain hits.
My stomach fell through a trapdoor. My horny slideshow brain, useless as ever, yanked up teenage posters and late-night fantasies and abs that deserved fan mail. My adult brain tried to file a cease-and-desist. Rejected.
She didn't smile. Her mouth tilted. Amused. Predatory. Like a cat with a red dot.
Then she pushed off the car, slid into the back seat, and was gone.
I realized I was white-knuckling a water bottle. I set it down before someone arrested me for assaulting hydration.
The system box still hovered, patient.
[Potential Conquest Target Detected.]
[Compatibility: High.]
"Absolutely not," I muttered. "I'm being boring. I'm pancakes-and-rent boring. I'm—"
"Mr. Cross," Gray-suit said, voice clipped in my ear. "This way."
She cut me through the crowd. Hunters watched. Civilians hissed gossip. Phones clicked.
At the curb, a plain black car waited. Not government-shiny. Just black, boring, like it hated being noticed. A guard held the back door.
I ducked in because pancakes still existed and I wanted to live long enough to eat them.
The ride back smelled like leather and lies. Central's bone tower slid out of view. Guild Row's banners screamed courage across the river. My reflection in the glass looked like a man-shaped accident. Fangpiercer hummed, pleased with itself.
My phone buzzed. Mara.
Saw you on the news. You okay? Call me when you can.
I laughed once, low. "Define okay," I told the glass. "But sure. Later."
The car dropped me a block from my building like I was a bad date. They pulled away, black tail lights winking once.
I climbed the stairs because the elevator hated me. My door scraped open. My apartment greeted me with squeaks and cheap soap. Fangpiercer hummed onto the table.
The system box still waited in the corner of my eye.
[Potential Conquest Target Detected.]
[Compatibility: High.]
I rubbed my face. "I want a refund."
Nothing.
I dropped onto my squeaky bed and stared at the cracked ceiling. Tried to picture pancakes. Rent. Being boring.
Got storm-gray eyes instead.
"Absolutely not," I told the dark.
The bed squeaked like it knew better.