What's the difference between raising a sixteen-year-old sister in Los Angeles on an entry-level salary and being able to take home a five to seven thousand dollar monthly check from the Hunter's Association of America?
Twenty essence points.
That was the whole game. The magic number. The golden ticket that turned "would you like to supersize that" into "would you like me to kill that goblin for you." Twenty essence points meant One-Star certification. The bottom of the barrel. The absolute floor of what it meant to be a hunter.
Rome had scraped together twenty-one.
One point above the minimum. One single, pathetic point that separated him from washing dishes at Denny's until his hands cracked and bled. He'd clawed his way to that number through an awakening test that left him passed out on the Association floor for six hours, and when he woke up, some bored administrator had handed him a card that had a single yellow star on it like it was a participation trophy.
Which, honestly, it kind of was.
But it paid. God, did it pay.
The gate hovered in the middle of Lincoln Park like someone had punched a hole in a painting. Fifteen feet of shimmering blue light, contained behind yellow tape and portable barriers. Association personnel in matching black uniforms stood at the perimeter, looking about as excited as DMV employees on a Monday morning. A couple of LAPD cruisers had blocked off the nearby paths, because apparently the city still felt the need to pretend normal laws applied when literal doorways to hell dimensions opened up in public spaces.
Rome stood near the cluster of food trucks that had materialized the moment the gate appeared. Because LA never missed an opportunity. Tacos, burritos, coffee, acai bowls. Someone was even selling hunter merchandise.
If the apocalypse came to LA, someone would be selling tickets and tacos within the hour.
Fifteen, maybe twenty hunters milled around the staging area. Some wore full tactical gear with plates and helmets. Others looked like they'd rolled out of bed and grabbed whatever was clean. A woman in head-to-toe black armor chatted with a dude in basketball shorts and sandals. Different styles, same job.
Get in. Kill stuff. Collect the check.
Rome tugged his headphones down. The lo-fi beats faded into birdsong and distant traffic. His stomach complained about the smell of bacon from the breakfast truck, but he ignored it. Food came after. Rent came first.
Medical wrap circled his forehead. The gash underneath had healed thanks to ARCAN, but the wrap sold the story. Made him look injured instead of suspicious. His jacket was thrifted, sixteen bucks from a Goodwill in Koreatown, and it smelled vaguely of Old Spice. His lucky jeans had a hole in the left knee. His bookbag sat heavy on his shoulders, stuffed with water bottles, protein bars, and a spare shirt.
"Rome! Hey!"
He looked up. Rodriguez. Big guy, bigger hammer. One of the regulars.
Rome nodded.
"You good? Heard you had some trouble last week."
Another nod. Slower this time.
"Ready to rock?"
"Always."
Rodriguez grinned and moved on. More familiar faces passed by. The morning shift of One-Star grinders who showed up to every low-level gate in the county. They waved. They called out. They asked if he was okay. If he was ready.
"Well, well, well! If it isn't America's Nuclear Deterrent here to grace us with his presence!"
Old Man Patterson. Sixty-something. Beer gut. Gray beard that looked like he'd stolen it from a garden gnome. He'd been running low star gates since before Rome's parents met, and he never missed an opportunity to bust someone's balls.
Rome turned. Face blank. "Ha ha. Fuck you, Patterson."
"There's my boy!" Patterson slapped his knee like that was the funniest thing he'd heard all week. "Watch yourselves, everyone! The ultimate weapon has arrived! We're all saved!"
A younger hunter nearby, some fresh-faced kid Rome had never seen before, leaned toward the woman next to him. "Wait, is he actually strong? Why would someone like that be on a One-Star gate?"
The woman, short hair, spear on her back, didn't even try to lower her voice. "It's a joke. Rome here is basically the opposite of a nuclear deterrent. Rome is more like a glow stick. Crack him once, he shines for an hour, then ends up in the trash."
"Oi." Rome's eyes slid toward them. "What was that?"
The woman threw her hands up. "Nothing, nothing! Just hoping we clear this gate before six. The Masked Singer's on tonight."
"The Masked Singer," Rome repeated.
"Hell yeah." The newbie kid jumped in, apparently over his confusion. "Word is Asteria might be performing. You know her, right? The ice queen from New York?"
The woman fanned herself. "Four-Star beauty. That woman could freeze me solid and I'd thank her for it."
Rome scratched his jaw. Asteria. Yeah, everyone knew Asteria. The Association's poster girl. Face like a model, powers like a blizzard, and a PR team that made sure you never forgot either of those things.
"She's fine," he said.
"Fine?" The kid looked personally attacked. "She's a twelve out of ten!"
"Seven. Maybe seven and a half." Rome shrugged, loose and careless. "Nefer's my pick. The way she moves, man. And those eyes? Plus her whole vibe is just—"
"What was that about Nefer?"
Rome's spine went stiff.
He turned with the agonizing slowness of a man realizing he's just stepped on a landmine.
Kiona stood three feet behind him.
Arms crossed. Hip cocked. One perfect eyebrow raised to devastating effect.
Oh no.
She's beautiful.
And I'm about to die.
Kiona was a Three-Star healer. Way above the pay grade of anyone else at this gate. She showed up to One-Star runs sometimes because, according to her, "someone has to keep you idiots alive."
She looked like trouble given human form. Dark hair that fell past her shoulders in waves. Sharp features. Sharper eyes. The kind of face that belonged in magazines or on wanted posters, depending on her mood. Her healer's coat was crisp white, fitted in ways that were probably against Association dress code, and she wore it like armor.
Right now, those gorgeous eyes were locked onto the medical wrap around his head.
"Rome."
"Kiona! Hey! Funny seeing you here."
"What happened to your head."
"This?" He touched the bandage like he'd forgotten it was there. "Oh, you know. Ran into a pole."
"A pole."
"Yeah. I was rushing to catch the bus and bam." He mimed the impact with his palm against his forehead. "Pole came out of nowhere. I'm thinking of filing a complaint with the city."
Kiona stared at him.
Rome stared back.
Somewhere behind them, Patterson was still laughing about the nuclear deterrent thing. The food truck guy called out that fresh breakfast burritos were ready. Life went on.
Kiona's eyes narrowed. "You're lying."
"I would never."
"You're always lying."
"That's a hurtful generalization."
"Last month you told me you got that gash on your arm from a 'rogue shopping cart' at Target."
"It was a very aggressive cart."
"The month before that, you said a 'startled pigeon' gave you a black eye."
"LA pigeons are built different. They've seen things. They have nothing to lose."
Kiona stepped closer. Close enough that Rome could smell her perfume. Something floral. Something expensive. Something that made his brain short-circuit for half a second before he remembered he was supposed to be lying.
"Rome."
"Yes?"
"Let me see."
"Kiona, it's really not—"
Then he saw them.
The air around her warped, smelling of ozone and crushed petals. Faint, translucent ears flickered into existence above her head—static in the shape of a fox.
She's already channeling? For this?
"It's just a cut," Rome tried.
"I'll decide that."
"Seriously, it's nothing. A scratch. Barely even bleeding anymore."
"Rome."
"The pole apologized."
"Rome."
Those fox ears solidified another fraction. Her eyes gained a faint golden tint around the edges. The temperature around them dropped by a few degrees.
She's really not playing around.
Rome sighed and bent his head down.
She was maybe five-foot-four on a good day. He had six inches on her easy. Bending down meant practically folding himself in half, which meant being way too close to her face, which meant he could count her eyelashes if he wanted to, which meant his brain was doing that short-circuit thing again.
Focus. She's just healing you. This is medical. Professional. Totally normal.
Kiona's hand pressed against his forehead. Her fingers were cool. Soft. She smelled like jasmine and something else he couldn't name.
Very professional. Very normal. Completely fine.
Her lips moved. The words came out low, almost too quiet to hear. Old words. The kind that sounded like they belonged in temples and ancient forests instead of a Los Angeles park next to a guy selling breakfast burritos.
"Yoru no hikari, kitsune no megumi..."
Warmth spread from her palm. It seeped into his skull, past the bone, into the places that still ached from three days ago. The gash he'd been hiding knit itself together. The dull throb behind his eyes faded. Even the headache he'd been ignoring since this morning dissolved into nothing.
She pulled her hand back.
Rome straightened up. He touched his forehead. Smooth skin. No wound. No scar. Like it had never happened.
"Wow." He blinked. "That's... you really didn't have to go that hard."
"It wasn't hard."
"Kiona, you just burned essence on a cut. Before we even enter the gate. That's like..." He searched for the right comparison. "That's like using a flamethrower to light a birthday candle."
"Maybe I wouldn't have to use a flamethrower if certain idiots didn't keep running into aggressive poles."
"The poles in this city are out of control. Someone should start a petition."
"Someone should start wrapping you in bubble wrap."
The fox ears above her head flickered once, then faded. The golden tint in her eyes retreated. Regular Kiona stood before him again, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line that was trying very hard not to curve upward.
She's fighting a smile. I saw it. That counts as a win.
"If the lovebirds are finished!"
The shout came from near the gate. Loud enough to make several hunters turn their heads. Loud enough to make Kiona's almost-smile disappear completely.
A man stood at the front of the crowd. Tall. Broad shoulders. Gray peppered through his dark hair in a way that said "experienced" rather than "old." He held a spear in one hand, the shaft planted against the ground like a walking stick. His armor was worn but well-maintained. The kind of gear that had seen a hundred gates and would see a hundred more.
Rome recognized him. Reyes. One of the veteran One-Starers who'd been doing this since the cateclysm. Not the strongest. Not the flashiest. Just consistent. Reliable. The kind of guy you wanted leading your party when things went sideways.
"Association appointed me party leader for this run." Reyes looked over the assembled hunters. His eyes moved from face to face, taking stock. "I see a lot of familiar faces. Few new ones too. Welcome to the grind."
A couple of the newbies nodded. The kid from earlier looked like he was trying very hard to seem cool and failing miserably.
"Anyone got objections to me calling the shots in there?"
Silence.
Rodriguez shrugged. Patterson picked at his teeth. The woman with the spear on her back checked her phone.
"Good." Reyes cracked his neck. "Association's got this pegged as a One-Star Blue Gate. Should be goblins, maybe some slimes if we're unlucky. Nothing fancy. Nothing scary."
Rome's hand drifted to the hilt of his knife.
"Game plan is simple." Reyes hefted his spear onto his shoulder. "We go in, we kill some monsters, and we get paid. Anyone got questions?"
More silence.
"Perfect." A grin spread across Reyes's weathered face. "Then let's get to work."