The morning air hadn't fully woken up yet.
It hung low over the old district, heavy and colorless, as if the city itself were still half-asleep. Everything carried a faint gray tint—the sky, the concrete, even the silence. Mornings here were always like this. Not peaceful. Just muted. Like a stage before the curtain was lifted, waiting for something to begin.
Across the street, the bakery finally pulled up its metal shutter.
The sound scraped through the alley—sharp, ugly, and far too loud for such an early hour. The noise bounced off the walls and lingered longer than it should have, echoing as if the street were hollow.
I was sitting inside, back against the wall, knees drawn slightly up, holding a cup of water that had already gone cold. I wasn't drinking it. Just holding it. Letting my thoughts drift without direction.
Then the knock came.
Not loud.
Not urgent.
But deliberate.
Three knocks.
A pause long enough to feel intentional.
Then two more.
My first thought wasn't who.
It was why.
That rhythm didn't belong to a neighbor. It wasn't careless like a delivery worker, either. It felt measured. Controlled. As if the person on the other side already knew they'd be answered.
Seven stood up.
He didn't look at me. He didn't need to. He simply reached for his coat and slipped it on in one smooth motion. His movements were always economical—no wasted gestures, no hesitation. But this time, I caught something different.
He was faster.
Not rushed. Just… prepared.
"I'll check," he said.
His voice was calm, flat, unchanged. But that only made the shift more obvious.
The moment the door opened, cold air rushed in like it had been waiting. It swept across the room and brushed my skin, raising a faint chill along my arms. I instinctively leaned back, then immediately realized that doing so would only draw attention. I lowered my head instead, pretending to adjust something on the floor.
But my eyes stayed fixed on the gap between the door and the frame.
There was a man outside.
He stood just beyond the threshold, never stepping in. His clothes were ordinary to the point of being forgettable. A dark jacket. Neutral colors. Nothing that would stand out in a crowd. The brim of his cap was pulled low, hiding his face completely in shadow.
He spoke quietly.
I couldn't hear the words.
Whatever he said, it was brief. Efficient. Then he extended his hand.
An envelope.
Black.
Not dark gray. Not navy. Not something that merely looked black under low light.
This was a black that swallowed light.
The surface didn't reflect. The edges were crisp and perfectly aligned, as if it had been pressed, measured, preserved. It looked less like stationery and more like an object meant to carry weight.
Seven took it.
He didn't open it.
Didn't pause.
Didn't even glance at it properly.
He folded it once—clean, precise—and slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat. The action was so smooth it felt rehearsed. Familiar. As if this wasn't the first time.
As if he'd been expecting it.
The door closed.
The man's footsteps retreated down the alley, light and quick, fading almost immediately into the background noise of the waking city.
Silence returned.
Not comfortable silence.
Just absence.
Seven turned back around. When his gaze met mine, it felt like he'd only just remembered I existed. Like my presence hadn't registered until that exact moment.
I swallowed, forcing my voice to stay casual.
"Big brother… who was that?"
"Nothing," he said. "A friend."
The word landed wrong.
A friend.
I almost laughed.
What kind of friend sends messages in black envelopes?
What kind of friend doesn't step inside?
And what kind of friend makes Seven accept something without even checking what it is?
But I didn't ask.
I wasn't that kid anymore—the one who demanded answers, who couldn't hide his curiosity.
"Oh," I said, nodding. "That's good."
Seven gave no response. He turned and went back into the room, leaving the question exactly where it was.
Unanswered.
The rest of the day felt off.
Not because of anything obvious. Not because of tension or raised voices.
It was the rhythm.
Seven stayed inside all day, yet he never truly settled. He moved from one small task to another—drinking water, organizing items that didn't need organizing, standing by the window and watching the street below.
None of it lasted long.
He was always ready to stop.
Ready to move.
Like someone waiting for a signal that hadn't come yet.
Every sound outside made me wonder if that was it. Every passing footstep made the room feel tighter. I told myself I was imagining things.
But by evening, I couldn't deny it anymore.
Dinner was quick. Mechanical. Chopsticks moved. Food disappeared. No real conversation passed between us. When Seven set his chopsticks down, the sound was soft—but final.
"I'm heading out," he said.
"Where to?" I asked.
"Meeting an old friend."
His tone didn't change. But something about it felt settled. Decided.
"Might be late."
Old friend.
The words sent a dull thud through my chest.
"Can I come?" I asked, pretending it was just a casual thought.
Seven looked at me.
The glance lasted less than a second.
But I understood immediately.
"No."
The door closed behind him.
I stayed where I was, staring at it. One second. Two. Three.
Then I stood.
I didn't have a plan. I didn't know what I intended to do.
I only knew I couldn't stay behind.
I followed him.
From far away. Far enough to pretend it didn't matter if I lost sight of him. I used reflections, corners, parked vehicles—anything that broke line of sight.
It didn't help.
At an intersection, Seven disappeared.
Not turning.
Not accelerating.
One moment he was there.
The next, the street was empty.
It felt like the city itself had erased him.
I stopped, a chill creeping into my spine, followed immediately by a bitter sense of ridicule.
Of course.
As if I could ever track him.
I didn't go back to the inn.
Instead, I walked.
The old district transformed quickly at night. Streetlights flickered on one by one, casting uneven halos that barely reached the mouths of alleyways. Neon signs buzzed to life, their colors harsh and artificial. Bars opened their doors, laughter spilling out alongside music that felt too loud for streets this narrow.
Behind a few underground fight clubs, men gathered in low voices. The air felt thick with intent—whispers, glances, exchanges that didn't want witnesses.
That was when I heard it.
"Move it. Assembly time's almost here."
"Yeah, yeah. Coming."
I froze.
The voice wasn't unfamiliar.
I lowered my cap instinctively.
The sound came from a side alley. I didn't turn my head fully—just shifted my eyes.
There they were.
Loan-shark thugs.
I didn't need to see their faces clearly. I'd dealt with them too many times. Their tone, their posture, the way they spoke like the world owed them space.
"Assembly?"
The word hit harder than it should have.
I should've walked away.
Every rational thought told me to leave. But the black envelope, Seven's behavior, the timing—it all snapped together.
I stepped forward.
"Hey," I said quietly. "Where you guys headed?"
One of them turned, surprise flashing briefly across his face before melting into that familiar, greasy smile.
"Well, look who it is."
He scanned me slowly. "Where've you been hiding, kid?"
Another voice cut in sharply.
"No time. Get in the van. Talk later."
I hesitated.
Then climbed in.
The van was cramped, already packed with bodies. The air smelled of sweat, metal, and oil. Weapons rested openly—clubs, knives, unfamiliar hardware that made my stomach tighten.
"Who's the kid?" someone muttered.
"He's an ability user," the first guy said.
Silence followed.
The engine roared to life.
"One of our bases got wiped," someone said quietly. "This morning."
"And the bosses?" I asked.
"Got a challenge letter."
My fingers curled.
"So tonight," he continued, "we gather everyone."
The van lurched forward.
"Show some guts," another man said with a grin. "Maybe your debt disappears."
I smiled back.
"Sounds good."
The city blurred past the windows.
When the van stopped, the factory loomed ahead.
Dark. Vast.
Crowded with vehicles.
Hundreds of people.
I stepped out, staring at the blackened buildings.
Only one thought remained clear.
Seven was already here.