"Absolutely not."
Petra Marlowe didn't even hesitate. The response was instant, sharp, and final. "The Duskwardens answer only to my father. I have zero authority to mobilize them."
Ethan Kane kept his expression neutral. Petra was beginning to adapt to her new reality, but she was still viewing the world through her privileged bubble, bound by official hierarchies. She couldn't see what was staring her right in the face: Flint Voss had just paid a corrupt Duskwarden a mere two thousand credits to make Warren Calloway disappear.
"Your biggest problem right now is that you have no real power," Ethan said, steering the conversation back to hard realities. "Even if I agree to help you, that core issue doesn't go away."
Petra bit her lip, well aware of her vulnerability. Real power in this city was a scarce commodity, monopolized by the Duskwardens and the Lampbearers. The City Watch held some sway, but their authority was strictly diurnal—they handled daytime criminals, not the horrific Void aberrations that crawled out of the dark. Besides, as the mayor's daughter, she didn't have the clearance to command the City Watch either.
"But I genuinely can't order the Duskwardens around," Petra insisted, a faint frown creasing her brow. "Honestly, I've barely even spoken to them."
Ethan understood. He had no experience with the Duskwardens either, though for entirely different reasons. To them, Ethan was just street trash, completely invisible. To Petra, they were elite bodyguards who kept their distance out of professional protocol; they had no right to casually socialize with the mayor’s daughter. For two people on opposite ends of the social spectrum, building a bridge to the city's elite enforcers seemed impossible.
But Ethan had a wildcard. Flint Voss.
"I have a way to bring a Duskwarden to our side," Ethan said, his tone dead serious. "Not the entire force, obviously. Probably just one or two."
Petra blinked, her eyes widening. "You? How?"
"Leave that to me," Ethan replied, brushing past her skepticism. "But when the time comes, I'll need your help."
"I... I don't have as much money as you think," Petra murmured, looking down as a flush of embarrassment hit her cheeks. Growing up, currency had been an abstract concept. If she wanted something, her parents bought it. Her allowance was generous, but it was exactly that—allowance. It wasn't the kind of capital needed to bribe high-ranking operatives or fund a shadow war. For the second time in her life—the first being the raw, gnawing pain of hunger—Petra was experiencing a harsh new reality: being broke.
"Don't worry about the money for now. It's your status I need," Ethan said, scratching his head as he pondered the logistics. "My main issue is how to get in touch with you."
"I can give you my number," Petra offered eagerly.
Ethan gestured to his threadbare clothes, a dry smile playing on his lips. "Do I look like someone who owns a phone?"
Petra stared at him, momentarily stunned. Living in her walled-off world, she had never met anyone who couldn't afford a basic communication device. "Oh... then, let me buy one for you?"
"I'd appreciate that."
Petra immediately stepped to the door to give the order. A standard mobile phone was well within her pocket-money budget.
"Perfect. I'll contact you when the board is set," Ethan said. Mimicking the gesture Flint had made the day before, he extended his hand. "As of right now, we're partners."
Petra hesitated for a fraction of a second before extending her own hand, delicately gripping only his fingertips. "Right. Here's to a... successful partnership."
Back in the barbershop, Ethan turned the sleek, brand-new phone over in his hands. Only a single contact was saved in the directory: Petra Marlowe. He hadn't expected to acquire a personal comms device so quickly, but the sudden windfall only reinforced a brutal truth of the slums.
To survive and thrive, you had to be useful.
Whether it was Flint Voss or Petra Marlowe, both had only thrown him a lifeline because they saw an asset worth investing in. The Lumcores, the food, this phone—they weren't gifts. They were advance payments, leverage designed to extract his value. If he wanted better cards to play, he had to prove he was worth the higher stakes.
He smiled to himself. He'd managed to slip a clever bit of leverage past Petra at the end. She had initially demanded his absolute obedience, but he had quietly reframed their entire dynamic into an equal partnership.
But Ethan wasn't the only one playing the game. Petra Marlowe was no naive maiden. If she had the resources to investigate a veteran like Flint Voss, she certainly could—and did—dig into Ethan Kane's background.
Her investigation had yielded a crucial thread. Before his sudden rise, Ethan had lived in a damp, miserable basement apartment. He wasn't alone; he shared the space with two younger orphans he looked after: Ryan Cross and Chloe Hart.
Both had vanished.
Initially, the trail went cold, and Petra hadn't paid it much mind. But a seemingly trivial piece of gossip from a school classmate suddenly bridged the gap.
During a visit to check on her after the kidnapping, a classmate mentioned seeing Felix Grayson accompanied by a young girl the day after Petra's rescue. The girl, around thirteen or fourteen, was exceptionally cute. At their academy, any news regarding the high-profile Felix Grayson was picked apart by the student body. Initially, rumors swirled that she was his long-lost sister, but subsequent leaks suggested Felix had "rescued" her from a filthy, stench-ridden alleyway.
An alleyway that perfectly matched the location of Ethan's basement dwelling.
Further digging revealed the girl's name. She didn't share Felix's surname, Grayson; her name was Chloe Hart.
Petra immediately tasked her closest friend with uncovering more. To her friend, Petra's interest in Felix Grayson's affairs seemed like typical schoolgirl gossip. But on her way to meet Ethan, a fresh update flashed on Petra's phone:
"Petra, you won't believe this. Word is Senior Grayson had his people transfer that girl straight to Dawnspire..."
While Petra couldn't be absolutely certain this was the very same Chloe who had lived with Ethan, she knew this information was a goldmine. To Ethan Kane, it would be worth more than all the food and Lumcores in the city combined.
Confirming the lead would be Ethan's job, not hers. For now, Petra held this card close to her chest. She wanted to see how far their cooperation would go first. If Ethan proved stubborn or demanded too high a price to do her bidding, this secret would be her ultimate trump card to bring him to heel.
And she trusted the intel. The spoiled, wealthy students of her academy might be useless in a fight, but their ability to sniff out secrets was terrifyingly accurate.
At that very moment, miles away, Chloe Hart sat in the back of a sleek transport vehicle. Her eyes shone with awe as she stared up at the colossal, cloud-piercing gates looming before her.
Etched deep into the towering double doors, gleaming in radiant gold leaf, were two massive characters:
Dawn. Spire.
By four in the afternoon, Ethan arrived early at The Reaper's Rest.
Tinkle.
The brass bell above the door chimed, cutting through the low murmur of the bar. Over on a worn leather sofa, four men in the middle of a card game paused, slamming their cards face-down onto the table as they turned in unison to stare. Their gaze was cold, measuring him up and down with silent, evaluating hostility.
Ethan stepped inside, taking in his surroundings. A ten-foot-long mahogany bar dominated the front of the room, with rows of polished glassware hanging from overhead racks and a dazzling array of spirits lining the back wall. Behind the counter stood a bartender, impeccably dressed with slicked-back, grease-shined hair and white cotton gloves, carefully polishing a highball glass. He, too, was sizing Ethan up.
The bar spanned about two thousand square feet. A row of small round tables lined one wall, balanced by the larger sofas and long tables on the other. It was a clean, straightforward layout, letting Ethan sweep the room in a single glance. Including himself and the bartender, there were only six people in the room.
Flint Voss was nowhere to be seen.
"Is Flint around?" Ethan asked politely.
The bartender didn't answer, merely continuing his rhythmic polishing.
Over at the card table, however, a buzz-cut man in his late twenties smirked, tossing his hand onto the green felt. He had a sharp, roguish face decorated with a ridiculous double row of silver studs lining both ears.
"Hah! I knew it!" The man stood up, sauntering toward Ethan with an aggressive swagger. "I always said old Flint had a bastard hiding somewhere. Look at this! The kid finally tracked down his dear old dad. Hey, junior—who's your mother?"
Ethan could tell the guy was trying to be funny, but he wasn't in the mood to play the straight man to a cheap comedian.
"Is Flint here or not?" Ethan repeated, his voice dropping a few degrees.
"Whoa, eager to see daddy, are we?" the man sneered, clearly enjoying the sound of his own voice. "He's out on business. But hey, feel free to pull up a chair and wait."
"Flint told me to meet him here before five," Ethan said, cutting straight to the point. "He invited me to join The Reaper's Rest."
Ethan didn't know for sure if these guys were official members of the Harvesters' Union, so he intentionally used the bar's name as a euphemism. It was a safer bet.
At the mention of Flint's personal invitation, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The hostile glares softened, replaced by looks of pure skepticism.
"Flint recruited a green kid into the Harvesters' Union?" The buzz-cut man scoffed, turning back to his buddies at the table. "Come on, boys, you telling me this isn't nepotism?"
The table erupted into rough, mocking laughter.
"Whatever. Since you're here, why don't you join the big boys for a drink?" The man gestured vaguely to the bar. "You legal yet, kid? Can you even handle a beer?"
He clearly didn't take Ethan's cold demeanor seriously. Just another street rat trying to look tough. He'd seen dozens of them.
"Sure," Ethan replied, his expression remarkably pleasant.
The man chuckled, turning his back on Ethan to head toward the bar.
The instant his back was fully turned, Ethan's hand flashed out. He grabbed a heavy glass ashtray from a nearby table and brought it down on the man's skull in a single, brutal arc.
Fast. Precise.
Ethan pulled his force at the last fraction of a second to avoid cracking the man's head open like a melon. But the impact was still devastating.
Crack!
The heavy glass connected. The man staggered forward, his legs turning to jelly before he collapsed face-first onto the floorboards.
"Fuck!" the man shrieked, clutching the back of his head. He pulled his hand back, his palm slick with dark, hot blood.
The card game stopped instantly. The four men froze, their jaws dropping as they stared at the teenager.
Ethan stood calmly, blood slowly dripping from the edge of the glass ashtray in his hand. He didn't move in to finish the job. Instead, he casually set the bloody ashtray back onto the table.
"I'm here to sign up, not to find a family," Ethan said, looking down at the groaning man struggling to his feet. "If you're that desperate for a father, go ask Flint yourself."
The man stumbled as he got up, his vision swimming from the concussive force of the blow. He shook his head like a wet dog, wiping the blood across his cheek and giving himself an even more feral, menacing look.
The onlookers watched, but none of them moved to intervene. It wasn't a lack of camaraderie. In their world, getting blindsided by a kid was an embarrassment you had to settle yourself. If they jumped Ethan as a pack, it wouldn't save face—it would brand the entire Reaper's Rest as a bunch of weak cowards who couldn't handle their own lightweights.
A Fixer's reputation was their currency. Ganging up on a teenager was bad for business.
"Dirty little rat, aren't you?" Cole spat, a vicious grin splitting his bloody face. "Yeah... I can see why Flint picked you."
But his compliance ended there. Cole raised his fists, adopting a tight, professional guard. His eyes gleamed with a predatory light as he began to bounce on the balls of his feet, his upper body weaving in a fluid, practiced rhythm.
"Come on, Cole, you really gonna get serious with a kid?" one of his card buddies yelled, laughing.
"You're not the one bleeding, asshole!" Cole snapped back without breaking his focus on Ethan. "I settle my own scores. Keep your nose out of my business!"
The name hit Ethan like a bucket of ice water. Cole.
When Ethan had warned Flint about a potential rat leaking information within the Harvesters' Union, Flint had muttered that very name.
Cole Mercer.
Ethan had assumed Flint's absence today was because he was busy dealing with the leak. Yet here the supposed traitor was, casually playing cards in the union's own sanctuary. Was it a coincidence? Did they just share a name?
Ethan didn't believe in coincidences. Not in a place like this. But before he could piece the puzzle together, a heavy fist broke his concentration.
Cole's fist rocketed toward his face.
Ethan wasn't completely useless in a brawl; you didn't survive scavenging the scrap heaps without learning how to throw a punch. But Cole was a professional. Ethan managed to slip the headshot, but his movement opened him up perfectly for Cole's follow-up—a savage, compact left hook straight into his solar plexus.
The air exploded from Ethan's lungs. His face went purple as his stomach did a violent flip, forcing him to double over and stumble backward.
He had initiated this fight with a clear strategy. If he walked into the Harvesters' Union meek and submissive, he'd be branded as easy prey. Cole and every other veteran here would spend the rest of his career hazing, exploiting, and stepping on him. The Calloway brothers were living proof of what happened to the weak in the dark.
In this world, strength demanded respect; weakness invited ruin. Even if he couldn't win, he had to prove he was willing to draw blood.
Besides, with his passive self-healing ability, physical damage was temporary. He could afford to take a beating if it bought him respect.
But healing didn't stop the pain.
As an agonizing spasm racked his gut, Ethan hung his head, his vision blurring. Beneath his lowered brow, the white of his eyes suddenly began to recede, swallowed by an encroaching, pitch-black darkness.
An ancient, primal instinct rose from the depths of his consciousness, drowning out all logic.
You dare strike me?
I will tear your throat out.