To Petra Marlowe, the man standing before her was a textbook creep.
Ethan Kane was currently shirtless, exposing a ribcage so prominent he looked more like a walking skeleton than a capable survivor. Worse, he was staring down at his own faded, suspiciously bulging boxers with a vacant, grinning stare.
Every man in Petra’s social circle was a picture of polished etiquette and tailored suits. Even Flint Voss, rough as he was, possessed enough self-respect to keep himself fully clothed. But this... thing in front of her was a different story entirely.
"Did you get kidnapped again?"
Ethan’s voice shattered her silent disgust. When she looked up, his foolish grin had vanished, replaced by a look of sheer, unbothered annoyance.
"I came here on my own accord!" Petra snapped, spinning on her heel. "Do you mind putting some actual clothes on?"
"Don't look then," Ethan muttered, though he slammed the door shut anyway.
A few moments later, he emerged wearing Warren Calloway’s old clothes. It was his only option; he’d raided the place yesterday only to find nothing but Lucy's dresses. A musty, unpleasant odor wafted off the fabric, making Petra wince, but Ethan, entirely unbothered, sank into one of the leather barber chairs.
"Why are you back here anyway?" his expression flattened. "And let’s get one thing straight: I didn't kidnap you."
Petra's sneer faltered. Her expression softened, a shadow of complex grief crossing her eyes.
Objectively speaking, Lucy had been kind to her. The barbershop owner had given her clean clothes, let her wash up, styled her hair, and even complimented her looks. Coming from a background where flattery was cheap, Petra had surprisingly felt the genuine warmth in Lucy's voice. The woman's brutal death hadn't just shattered Flint and Ethan—it had left a hollow ache in Petra, too. She had spent the last twenty-four hours trapped in her room, thinking. She could swear she had never engaged in such profound introspection in her entire life.
Dean Brennan deserved to die. It wasn't just because the man had abducted her; it was the way the Nightbound had butchered one of her father’s close associates back at the villa without a second thought. There was no feud, no history. It was a cold, calculated execution meant solely to establish dominance. To Petra, the Nightbound were monsters.
And Flint? If Flint had died, she could have rationalized it. He was a collaborator, a mercenary enabling their cruelty.
But Lucy was innocent. In her old life, Petra might not have given a second thought to a back-alley shopkeeper. But starvation changes a person. For the first time, she had felt the clawing desperation of hunger, the raw, ugly instinct to just survive. Lucy was only trying to stay alive.
What sickened her most, however, was Felix Grayson. How was Felix's summary execution of Lucy any different from the Nightbound murdering her father's friend? Petra had spent her life believing the Lampbearers and the Duskwardens were paragons of absolute justice. Now, the word felt like a hollow joke.
"Oi!" Ethan snapped his fingers, waving a hand in front of her face to break her trance.
Petra blinked, looking up.
"I came here for you. I have a proposition."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. Even with his emotions blunted, he could still read people. He had sensed her genuine grief over Lucy and assumed she’d only come to pay her respects. He certainly hadn't expected Bandit to show up looking for him.
"For me?" Ethan rubbed his stubbly chin. Try as he might, he couldn't think of a single reason why Petra Marlowe would seek him out. When she was a hostage, she had relied on him because he held the food. But now? She was back to being the mayor's pampered little princess. She wasn't hurting for bread.
"Save your energy. I’ll explain in a moment," Petra said, instantly reclaiming her authoritative demeanor. She stood and gestured toward the entrance. "Bring them in."
Ethan tensed, his hand instinctively twitching. But as the door swung wider, he froze. Six burly men marched into the quiet barbershop, each carrying two heavy metal crates. They set them down with a heavy thud, and the moment the lids were popped, Ethan couldn't look away.
Eight of the crates were packed to the brim with food—vacuum-sealed meats, high-calorie ration bars, and stacks of instant noodles. The remaining four were filled with low-grade Lumcores, their faint blue light humming in the dim room.
To someone of Petra’s stature, this was pocket change. To Ethan, it was a fortune. Food and Lumcores. For a man whose entire existence was a desperate scramble to survive, these crates held more value than all the gold in the city.
It took a massive effort of will for Ethan to tear his eyes away from the haul. He looked at Petra, his silent stare demanding an explanation.
Petra dismissed her guards with a wave of her hand. Once the door clicked shut behind them, she pointed to the cargo. "All of this is yours."
Ethan remained silent. He looked down at his borrowed, ill-fitting clothes, then back at her. "What exactly do you want from me?"
Flint’s invitation had made sense; Ethan had fought, bled, and proven his utility. But Petra's sudden, lavish handout was entirely unprovoked, and that made him deeply suspicious.
"I want you to work for me," Petra finally laid out her cards.
Ethan’s expression didn't nudge. "Be specific."
"It means you do what I tell you to do!" Petra rolled her eyes at his thickheadedness. "I’m putting together my own crew."
"Can't do it," Ethan shook his head. "I already joined Flint's Harvesters' Union."
"I’m not talking about the Union!" Petra huffed, taking a deep breath to explain her grand plan.
This was the conclusion she had reached after her harrowing ordeal. When she was taken, the parents she worshiped, the handsome Felix Grayson she had fawned over, and the shallow friends who used to flatter her—none of them had prioritized her survival. She realized that if she wanted to control her own fate, she had to build her own shield. She was going to use her family's wealth to fund a private security force answerable only to her. And Ethan Kane was her first candidate.
"You're hiring me?" Ethan scoffed. "Did you forget I could barely protect myself back in that basement?"
"I didn't forget. But you survived."
She hadn't forgotten how he’d callously used her life as a bargaining chip to force Dean Brennan's hand to take him into the Passage. She had been furious, yes, but she also recognized his cold, pragmatic ruthlessness. He was a survivor.
"If you want to build a crew, wouldn't Flint be a better fit?" Ethan questioned.
Petra didn't hesitate. "He wouldn't even blink at these crates."
Ethan blinked. After a long silence, a dry, self-deprecating laugh escaped his lips. "So, I'm just the budget option?"
He wasn't wrong. Cost was indeed the driving factor behind her choosing him over Flint. With her father's resources, digging up Flint’s profile had been simple. But once she discovered Flint was a seasoned Fixer who ran a branch of the Harvesters' Union, she knew hiring him was out of the question. The price tag would be astronomical. An eighteen-year-old girl, even the mayor's daughter, only had access to so much personal allowance. She couldn't afford a veteran Fixer.
Besides, hiding a Nightbound fugitive and securing the release of the mayor's daughter was high-stakes work that pulled in massive payouts. Flint was out of her league.
More importantly, Flint was uncontrollable. He was a power player in the local underbelly. No amount of pocket money would buy his loyalty to a spoiled teenager. Petra wasn't delusional enough to think her charm could sway a hardened criminal. Fixers followed the coin. The Nightbound paid them for shelter, and Petra could pay them for protection. Strictly speaking, she didn't even view Flint as her enemy, despite his role in her abduction. To a mercenary, an enemy was merely someone standing between them and a payday.
But there was a glaring complication: Lucy's death. Blood had been spilled, and Petra was tangentially responsible for it. That changed the equation entirely.
Weighing all these factors, Ethan was her perfect target. He was cheap, possessed survival instincts, and wasn't a complete psychopath. Ultimately, he was easy to control.
"I wouldn't put it so crudely..." Petra murmured, flushing slightly at his bluntness.
As she scrambled to find a more diplomatic way to phrase it, Ethan cut her off.
"Lay out your terms," he said, his eyes drifting back to the twelve crates. "These are mine now, right?"
Petra blinked, then nodded quickly. "Yes, they're yours. And if you perform well, I will personally guarantee your supply of food and Lumcores."
"These Lumcores are a higher grade than the scraps you've been using, and the food is premium quality," Petra added, trying to sweeten the deal. She was convinced Ethan was a simple man with cheap needs, easily bought with basic survival necessities.
And she wasn't wrong. Ethan was agreeing solely because of the crates. But while she thought she was buying a cheap pawn, Ethan was busy calculating her true worth.
Flint’s Harvesters' Union could teach him the mechanics of the night and basic survival, but when it came to the city's deeper secrets, a street-level Fixer had his limits. Petra, however, had access to channels Flint couldn't dream of reaching. Even if the girl was currently naive, her drive to build a private faction would force her to dig up classified intelligence. By accepting her offer, Ethan could secure his physical survival while using her as a conduit to extract high-level knowledge. It was a win-win.
"Deal. Thank you," Ethan cut through her pitch, his face as unreadable as ever. "Now, let’s hear your plan."
Petra immediately straightened, her youthful face tightening with a sudden, serious resolve. "First, I need you to find out exactly what 'The Nightveil Passage' is."
The name wasn't entirely unfamiliar. Ethan had heard Dean Brennan and his lackeys mutter about the Nightveil Passage, though he’d paid it no mind at the time. Back then, a street rat like him had no business poking his nose into elite secrets. But now, with his path shifting and Petra raising the question, a spark of genuine curiosity flared in him.
"Fine. What else?" Ethan asked. "How does chasing a myth help you build a security force?"
"How does it not?" Petra snapped. "The Nightbound kidnapped me specifically because of this Passage. When I got home, I practically begged my father for answers, and he shut me down completely."
"I’m trying to protect myself. If I remain ignorant about the Passage, my survival this time was just dumb luck. What happens when they come back? I need to understand what my kidnappers want so I can anticipate their next move."
She was growing visibly agitated. The trauma had aged her, forcing her to abandon her shallow concerns about matching dresses and high-society gossip.
In stark contrast to her flushed, heated breathing, Ethan remained coolly detached.
"Your logic is flawed." Petra opened her mouth to argue, but Ethan raised a hand, cutting her off. "Even if you discover what the Nightveil Passage is, what exactly are you going to do when the Nightbound break down your door again?"
"Consider the facts. The Nightbound want the Passage open. But the key to opening it isn't you—it's your father, Mayor Marlowe. Dean Brennan already had you in his custody. If you possessed the power to unlock it, he wouldn't have bothered using you as leverage against your father. Knowing what the Passage is changes absolutely nothing about your vulnerability, because you are not the variable here."
Petra bit her lip, silenced by his blunt pragmatism.
Ethan leaned back. "Look, you brought me a fortune in survival gear. Whatever your hidden motives, I profit. So, as far as I'm concerned, you're a good Bandit."
"My name is not Bandit!" she hissed.
"Doesn't matter," Ethan dismissed her with a wave. "Your goal is to build a shield. But honestly, choosing me as your foundation? Aside from the bargain-bin price tag, it’s a terrible tactical decision." He gestured to his cheap, ill-fitting clothes. "I am a man who can barely secure his own daily bread. Asking me to raise a force capable of protecting the mayor's daughter is lightyears above my pay grade. Still, since I’ve accepted your bribe, I’ll keep my word and try to find a path forward."
He leaned forward, locking his gaze with hers. "But before I brainstorm, I need a clear picture of the resources you actually control. I have a few questions. If you want this partnership to work, I need absolute honesty."
A flicker of hesitation crossed Petra’s eyes.
Absolute trust? Out of the question. They had no foundation, no shared history of loyalty. She had approached him purely because he was cheap and expendable. Yet, as she looked at him, she had to admit he was the only card she had left to play. That realization tasted like ash.
Before she could formulate a carefully guarded response, Ethan bypassed her hesitation entirely, throwing out his first query.
"With your status as the mayor's daughter, is it possible for you to pull some strings and mobilize the Duskwardens—strictly within the boundaries of their regulations, of course?"