Ethan Kane had walked to the Calloway residence ready to paint the pavement with blood. He knew the stakes. Warren was right about one thing: if he gave up the Lumcore, he and the kids were as good as dead. They weren't fighting over a crystal; they were fighting for the right to breathe.
But that suicidal desperation vanished the moment Warren demanded to join the Nightharvest.
Ethan knew his chances of clawing that Lumcore back through sheer violence were microscopic. Warren’s greed, however, had inadvertently cracked open a door. A wild, desperate plan began to take shape in his mind.
"So... you want me to make sure the fresh meat you brought along stays in the dark tonight?"
Flint Voss didn't turn around.
Ethan had slipped into the gathering area at the absolute last second, barely a heartbeat before the Duskwarden arrived. There had been no time for pleasantries. Under normal circumstances, Flint knew Ethan wasn't the type to cut it close; he would have arrived early, eager to pick the veteran’s brain about the harvest.
That was the first red flag. If Ethan was going to show up, he’d be early. Being late meant he was stalling.
The second anomaly was the shadow glued to Ethan's side. The stranger didn't look like a nervous rookie leaning on a guide; he looked like a warden keeping watch over a prisoner.
When Ethan took advantage of the recruits stepping forward to whisper his proposition—offering to bump Flint's cut to a staggering seventy percent—Flint didn't need to be a genius to put the pieces together. He kept his eyes locked forward, refusing to give the shadow any reason to suspect a conspiracy.
Nearby, the Goldlock—their gold-haired Duskwarden leader—was already barking out the safety protocols. Even a thug like Warren, terrified of making a fatal rookie mistake, had no choice but to pay rapt attention. He couldn't afford to watch Ethan's every breath.
"Help me out, Flint," Ethan whispered, his throat dry.
"Must be some deep-seated hatred," Flint murmured back, a faint chuckle in his voice. "An extra twenty percent of your daily take isn't pocket change over time. You want him gone that badly?"
"If he lives, I don't," Ethan said flatly. "And my family will never sleep in peace."
"That serious?" Flint’s tone remained casual. "But you and I are barely acquaintances. What makes you think I'd stick my neck out for you?"
"Like you said, twenty percent is a lot of money," Ethan swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I know you might not need the coin, but you wouldn't have invited me to the Harvesters' Union if you didn't see some value in me. I'm rolling the dice. If I win, I live. If I lose, I'm dead anyway."
Flint fell silent. Ethan stared at the back of the older man's head, desperately searching for any slight tilt of the chin or shift in posture.
The briefing was wrapping up. Warren and the other recruits were already turning back toward the group.
"Keep your twenty percent," Flint’s voice drifted back, barely a breath in the wind. "Once we've taken care of the garbage blocking your path, I'll let you know what I want in return."
Ethan's stomach did a slow, heavy flip. The response didn't bring relief; instead, it felt like crawling out of a shallow grave only to slide into a bottomless abyss. A clean transaction with a seventy percent cut would have been safe. The unknown price of a veteran's favor was bound to be far steeper.
But he had no choice.
"Deal. Thank you, Flint."
"Don't sweat it."
Warren slipped back into the ranks, and the harvesters filed onto the transport truck.
"Alright, out with it," Warren hissed the second the engine roared to life, leaning close enough for Ethan to smell his nervous sweat. "What's this safe harvesting method of yours?"
Warren was projecting confidence, but Ethan could feel the tremor in his voice. Against Ethan, Warren was a tyrant. Against the looming, suffocating blackness of the night, he was just another terrified rat.
"We're already safe," Ethan said, his voice entirely hollow.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean? You playing games with me?"
"There are eleven harvesting zones in Northridge," Ethan explained, looking him dead in the eye. "The target materials and danger levels shift every night. Today, this particular outpost is the safest run on the map."
Warren squinted, trying to poke holes in the story. "And how would a piece of trash like you know that?"
"Someone told me yesterday," Ethan lied smoothly, wetting his dry lips. "We were harvesting Gloomcrawler—those subterranean mushrooms. They had to be pulled out completely intact. I gave the Duskwarden a tip on how to extract them without tearing the caps. If I hadn't, she wouldn't have made a single copper. She threw me this information as a quiet thank-you, and promised to keep me ahead of the zone rotations."
Warren's eyes scanned the cramped flatbed, lingering on the tense faces of the other harvesters. "So where is she? Point her out."
"She didn't come tonight," Ethan said, leaning his head back against the vibrating metal wall and closing his eyes. "Probably back home, tending to her kid."
Across town, in the cramped, damp confines of the Calloway apartment, Hayes Calloway lay sprawled across the mattress, lazily shuffling a battered, incomplete deck of playing cards. For bottom-feeders like them, survival was the only real luxury. Entertainment was whatever garbage you could salvage from the gutters.
In the far corner, Ryan Cross and Chloe sat huddled together, their knees pulled tight to their chests. They knew Ethan had traded his own safety to buy them this temporary reprieve, but sharing a room with Hayes made every breath feel like inhaling glass.
They exchanged a fleeting, terrified glance, Ethan's final instructions echoing in their minds.
Hayes won't watch you, because to him, you're nothing but dirt, Ethan had whispered as they walked. He beat you bloody this morning, Ryan. He thinks you're a coward who will fold the moment he looks at you. I asked him to join the harvest, but he’s too soft. Warren is the brother with the spine; he's the one who will go out into the dark. Hayes is going to stay behind, and while he's stronger than Warren, he's incredibly stupid.
They keep a skinning knife in the kitchen.
Hayes ate his fill of meat buns today. Once the grease settles in his stomach, he's going to get heavy. He’s going to sleep.
He won't keep his hand on that knife when he's out cold.
Ryan. I’m not there. You are the only one left to protect this family.
The second he lets go of that blade... you grab it.
And you end him.
Ethan’s muscles were locked tight against the hard wood of the truck bed. His own whispered words burned in his mind, repeating like a mantra.
Could Ryan actually do it?
No. He had to do it.
There was no middle ground in the slums. If they weren't backed completely into a corner, Ethan would have never asked a boy like Ryan to stain his hands with blood. But Ryan was the only one who could pull this off. Hayes would never see him as a threat.
Even Warren assumed his brother was perfectly safe at home, watching over two helpless collateral pieces.
If Ethan had stayed behind, Hayes would have kept his eyes wide open. But Ryan? The useless kid who spent every confrontation hiding behind Ethan's coat strings? Hayes wouldn't even bother locking the door.
But that was exactly why Ethan had to push him. Ryan was too soft, too eager to cower. Ethan could protect him, but this crisis had laid bare a terrifying truth: he wouldn't always be there.
He put himself in Ryan’s shoes. If Warren had robbed him, Ethan would have fought to the death right then and there. It wasn't about being reckless; it was about knowing that losing the Lumcore was a slow, freezing suicide anyway.
But Ryan? Ryan had crept away in shame, too terrified to even knock on his own front door. He chose to hide.
If Ethan hadn't woken from that nightmare and gone outside, he might have found out about the stolen crystal when it was already too late. That cowardice would eventually kill them all.
He had to force the boy to grow up. Even if the transition tore Ryan's soul apart, he had to survive it. If Ryan could cross this line, then even if Ethan died in the dark tonight, Chloe would still have someone to keep her alive.
Do it, Ryan. You have to do it.
"You said this run was safe," Warren’s harsh voice shattered his thoughts. "Why the hell are you sweating like a pig?"
Ethan snapped his eyes open, realizing cold sweat was dripping down his temples.
"It's the dark," Ethan lied, forcing his voice to remain steady. "No matter how safe the zone is, we're still stepping outside the light. Anyone with half a brain would be sweating. You're telling me your heart isn't pounding?"
Warren didn't deny it. If he hadn't been so wound up himself, he might have looked closer at Ethan's trembling hands.
"Keep your head straight," Warren muttered, leaning back. "And remember—before you try anything stupid out there, think about those two useless runts waiting back at my place."
Ethan nodded slowly. "We want to live, Warren. Just like you."
Warren grunted, closing his eyes and taking deep, ragged breaths to settle his nerves.
Two hours later, the heavy truck hissed to a halt.
"Need eight volunteers to assemble the Glowrigs!" the Goldlock's voice cut through the dark from outside.
A scramble of seasoned harvesters leaped over the tailgate.
"What the hell is a Glowrig?" Warren asked, his voice tight.
Ethan quickly explained the basic mechanics of the deployable light structures and the fifty-coin bonus for setting them up.
"Do you know how to build one?" Warren asked immediately.
Ethan nodded. "It's simple. I watched them do it yesterday."
Warren snarled, his face twisting. "Fuck! Then why didn't you jump down? That's fifty coins!"
"And leave your side?" Ethan let out a weary sigh. "I figured if I ran off into the dark, you’d think I was trying to lose you. You think I like throwing money away?"
The explanation satisfied Warren's paranoia. If Ethan had rushed to volunteer, Warren would have suspected an ambush.
"What else pays extra?" Warren muttered as they climbed down.
"We can volunteer to pack the Glowrigs back onto the truck at the end of the shift. That pays too."
"Fine. You make sure you grab that job. Don't leave money on the table."
"Understood."
Ethan’s passive, defeated demeanor was working. Warren was visibly relaxing, convinced he had the upper hand. He had watched Ethan like a hawk throughout the ride; the kid hadn't spoken a single word to anyone else. A terrified rookie on his second night couldn't possibly orchestrate a trap under his nose.
Under the Goldlock’s supervision, the crew received their tools and instructions. Tonight’s target was "Inkslag."
Unlike the Gloomcrawlers, Inkslag didn't grow from the earth. They had to dig shallow trench-pits and wait for a thick, dark brown fluid to slowly seep up through the soil. The Duskwarden had provided wooden crates filled with glass vials to collect it.
"What do they even use this sludge for?" Warren muttered, crouching beside his freshly dug pit.
"I told you, Warren, yesterday was my first night," Ethan sighed, carefully ladling the viscous liquid into a vial. "We gathered mushrooms yesterday. I don't know any more than you do."
Ethan looked calm, but his chest felt like a war zone. Flint had promised to handle it, but how? When? The total lack of control was eating him alive. He didn't dare glance toward Flint, terrified Warren would catch the movement.
He forced himself to focus on the dirt, trying to soothe his racing mind, when a sudden shift in the darkness caught his eye.
The ripple.
The faint, shimmering distortion in the pitch-black air was back, identical to the anomaly from his nightmare.
The memory of the black fluid leaking from his palm rushed back. Between the threat of the Calloways and the terror of the harvest, he had completely pushed the terrifying dream out of his mind.
"What are you staring at?" Warren snapped, his eyes darting toward the empty space Ethan was looking at. "Is there a Voidstrider?!"
Ethan froze, slowly turning his head to look at Warren. The thug's eyes were wide, scanning the featureless dark with genuine terror.
A chilling realization settled in Ethan's chest.
"You... can't see it?"
"See what?" Warren hissed, his breath hitching. "It's pitch black! There's nothing there!"
"Nothing at all?" Ethan pressed.
"Stop fucking with me!" Warren whispered, his voice cracking.
But Ethan wasn't playing. He looked around the clearing. Dozens of harvesters were working in silence, completely ignoring the shimmering distortion right in front of them. Even the veteran Duskwardens were going about their business.
They weren't ignoring it because they were brave.
They were ignoring it because they were blind to it.
The ripple was only visible to him.