I didn't pick my front door.
I picked a utility hatch under the tram where no one goes unless something is already on fire. Concrete sweated. The bridge thrummed like a sleeping animal dreaming of traffic. A dead camera watched nothing. The hatch wore a rusted padlock like a necklace it couldn't afford.
Weird choice? Sure. But so was waking up in Mara's bed a week and a half ago with a system glued to my eyeballs. Since then: nearly died in Lot C, stabbed an A-rank Guardian until it stopped existing, ran errands in the Fog-Mire where another "totally C-rank" dungeon turned into another "oh look, surprise A-rank," and got watched by a milf-shaped surveillance angel who probably thinks I'm either chosen or horny. (Both. She'd be right.)
One week with this cheat sheet and my calendar already looks like a bad life montage: near-death, pancakes, boobs, murder, repeat.
