I crossed under a camera that didn't blink. The panel's note about visibility crawled under my skin and took a nap there. I imagined a scanner somewhere pinging softly, like a microwave that wanted to diagnose me.
I should have felt triumph. I had an A-rank blade in my bag and a domain with my thumbprint on it. Instead, the high came with a hangover made of logistics: keep the band quiet, keep the knife quieter, keep my mouth quietest.
My building's stairwell smelled like damp dust and fried onions. Mrs. Dobrev's door had three new stickers about paying rent and two knife emojis made out of duct tape. Aspirational decor.
Inside my place, the silence was the kind that listened.
I set the bag on the table, i grabbed Fogbite out of my inventory. The blade held a thin bloom of cold along the spine like a secret. The edge didn't look sharp. It looked hungry and polite about it.
A pane popped up like a cat on a counter.
[Item Appraised: Fogbite (A-Rank, Dagger)]
