Money is like blood in this city. Once it starts moving, things notice.
It happens on a bland afternoon.
Ryu's coming back from Haim's, small envelope in his pocket. He doesn't touch it. He doesn't even look at it. But his shoulders feel a little tighter than usual.
He cuts through a side street on instinct. It's one of his usual shortcuts. Narrow, between two apartment blocks, with a rusted railing on one side and balconies hanging overhead like tired eyelids.
Three boys step into view near the middle.
Older than him. Maybe eleven, twelve. Not big enough to be truly dangerous, but big enough that he doesn't like the math if it gets physical.
He recognizes one of them from the lower market. The one who smoked in alleys and asked, "You from the home?" months ago.
"Hey," that boy says now. "Ryu, right?"
Never a good sign when people who shouldn't know your name do.
Ryu stops, but not abruptly. He tilts his head, like he's mildly annoyed at the blockage, not nervous.
"Depends who's asking," he says.
The boy grins. It doesn't reach his eyes.
"Relax. We just want to talk."
"Everyone who says that never wants to just talk," Ryu says. "But go on. I'm listening."
"You work for the metal guy," another boy says. Freckles, busted lip. "We seen you."
"So you have eyes. Impressive," Ryu says. Inside, his thoughts pick up speed.
They noticed the pattern. Regular route. Regular job. Idiot.
"You get paid there, right?" the first boy says. "Not in soup. In money."
"Sometimes," Ryu says. "Sometimes he pays me in wise sayings."
The third boy, silent until now, shifts his weight. He's watching Ryu's hands, his pockets. Smart one.
"We figure," the leader says, "it's not fair."
"Life usually isn't," Ryu says.
"You got the home, food, bed, job," the boy goes on. "Some of us got none of that. So. Share."
"You want a cut," Ryu says.
"Yeah," the boy says, unabashed. "Call it… friendship tax."
Ryu looks at them. Three bodies. One exit behind him, boxed in. The other blocked. No witnesses. No Sister. No Haim. Just concrete and its usual indifference.
His heart ticks up. He keeps his face flat.
"If I say no," he asks, "do we call that a 'learning experience'?"
The leader rolls his shoulders. "If you say no, we teach you some manners. Then take it anyway."
Ryu exhales through his nose. Once.
Physical fight? Lose. Even if I get lucky, I walk away bruised and broke. Scream? No one comes fast enough. Run? They're closer to the open end.
He doesn't have Nen. He doesn't have strength. He has words and the fact that people, even street kids, hate unnecessary work.
"Fine," he says.
They blink.
"Fine?" the leader repeats, thrown off.
"I'm not suicidal," Ryu says. "You want a 'friendship tax'? You get one. See? I can be flexible."
He takes out the envelope slowly, careful to let them see it the whole time. He opens it, thumbs through. It's not a lot. Haim doesn't pay in fortunes.
He pulls out a third of it. Folds it. Tucks the rest back into the envelope and the envelope back into his pocket.
"Here," he says, holding out the smaller wad. "Congratulations. You're official extortionists now."
The leader laughs, snatches the money.
"That easy?" he says.
"I'm not dying over pocket change," Ryu says. "And now you've got income. You don't have to bother me again."
The leader's grin falters.
"Oh, we're coming back," he says. "Next time you get paid, we get paid."
Ryu nods slowly.
"Sure," he says. "And when word spreads that you shake down kids from the home, Sister talks to the guards. Guards talk to the Association liaison because they handle 'youth safety' in their pretty reports. Then the Hunter office sends someone to 'have a look.'"
The boys shift. They've heard those words before. Not the details, but the weight.
"You're lying," the freckled one mutters.
"Maybe," Ryu says. "Maybe I'm making it all up. Maybe no one cares if three idiots rob kids with city connections."
"City connections?" the leader scoffs. "You think you're special?"
"I think I'm officially registered," Ryu says. "Which means if something happens to me repeatedly, someone gets paperwork. And people who live by avoiding paperwork? They don't like attention."
He lets that sink in.
Silence stretches.
The quiet boy at the back speaks up finally.
"Just this once," he says to the leader. "We got some. There's others. Easier. No Sisters. No guards."
Ryu doesn't move. Doesn't push.
"Fine," the leader says eventually, stuffing the money into his pocket. "One-time tax. For using our street."
"Generous," Ryu says.
They step aside.
He walks past them, not too fast, not too slow. Every nerve screams at him to hurry. He doesn't.
He waits until he's out of the alley, around two corners, into a busier street before he lets his shoulders drop.
His hands are shaking.
You're not strong enough to win, he tells himself. So don't play that game.
He lost a chunk of his pay. Annoying. Not fatal.
He filed three faces under "possible future problems," one under "potentially reasonable." He also learned something about how far words can go before they stop being enough.
Next time, he thinks, I'd like to have more than a mouth.
Nen sits on that sentence like a shadow he can't summon.
Not yet.
The orphanage doesn't just feed kids and hope for the best. Not entirely, anyway.
A few weeks after the city official's visit, Sister starts her "life lessons" again.
It happens after dinner, in the hall, once or twice a week. The younger kids are sent to bed. The ones ten and up sit at the tables while Sister and one of the younger nuns lay out papers and a cracked whiteboard.
Ryu, eight, technically doesn't qualify.
He shows up anyway.
"You're a bit young," Sister says, eyeing him.
"I'm advanced for my age," he says. "Emotionally stunted, but logistically gifted."
She rubs her forehead. "Fine. Sit in the back. Quietly."
He does.
Sister writes three words on the board.
RENT.
WORK.
CONTRACT.
"This," she says, tapping the first word, "is how they get most of you. You turn fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. You leave here. Suddenly, stupid pieces of paper matter."
She explains:
How renting a room works.Deposits.Landlords who don't fix things.The difference between "furnished" and "it's a box, good luck."
Then she moves to work:
Wages per hour.Illegal underpaying."Trial period" scams.Why being paid in "experience" doesn't feed you.
She hands out example pay slips and makes them circle deductions, taxes, missing amounts.
Most of the kids groan. Some look overwhelmed.
Ryu feels something click into place.
This is the actual survival game, he thinks. Not just fighting and aura. This.
Contracts are worse.
She shows them sample employment contracts.
"You see this?" she says, pointing at a long paragraph. "This means, 'we own your time, and you can't complain unless we set you on fire.' Don't sign that."
"What if we don't have a choice?" a boy asks.
"Sometimes you don't," she says, blunt. "Then you sign and look for something better while you eat. But don't pretend you didn't know what you signed."
Ryu notes something in that too.
Knowledge doesn't fix everything. It just keeps you from lying to yourself about why you drown.
After the lesson, when the others drift off, he stays behind, stacking papers.
"You really think they listen?" he asks Sister.
"Some do," she says. "Most learn when it hurts. I try to make it hurt less."
"Do we get help? When we leave?" he presses. "Or is it just 'good luck, don't starve'?"
"You get a case worker who forgets your name," she says. "You get placement options if you pass school exams decently. Sometimes, if you're very lucky and not an idiot, you get apprenticeships with decent people."
She looks at him.
"And you," she says, "are already sticking your hands in too many things. Workshop. Markets. Watching everything. If you don't burn out, you'll have more options than most."
"That's because my standards for 'good' are low," he says.
"They shouldn't be," she replies.
He doesn't answer.
His standards aren't low. They're just… split.
One track: survive as a normal person. Food, bed, job, not getting crushed by rent and crime.
Second track: everything beyond that. Hunter. Nen. The dangerous path no one would recommend in these lessons.