"That’s it?"
Ethan Kane sat in the dirt, dragging a coarse rag across his face to wipe away the tacky, cooling blood. The copper tang clung to his skin, thick and suffocating.
Watching a Duskwarden execute a screaming woman from a distance was one thing. Watching Warren Calloway's throat get torn open while his dying weight collapsed directly onto Ethan's chest was another entirely. It wasn't just close; it was intimate.
Warren Calloway had been a constant, looming plague in Ethan's life. He had wanted the man dead, and Flint Voss had delivered. But the sheer ease of the execution left Ethan hollow.
He had expected Flint to use his veteran knowledge of the Nightharvest to set a trap, or to trick Warren into breaking some obscure rule. Instead, Flint hadn't used any clever schemes at all.
"I just told the Duskwarden that Calloway was starting a riot," Flint had said, his voice entirely too casual. "And then I slipped him two thousand credits. That’s all it takes."
The Duskwardens hadn't asked about their history. Flint hadn't asked about Ethan's. In this hellhole, a life didn't require a grand narrative. If the coin weighed enough, a finger squeezed a trigger. Two thousand credits. That was the price of a man's existence.
So what did that make Ethan? What did he have that could possibly interest a veteran like Flint?
Ethan watched the silent, hollow-eyed harvesters drag Warren’s corpse toward the yawning maw of the dark, dumping it like a sack of spoiled meat. No triumph warmed his chest. Only a cold, leaden weight.
"That simple," Flint said, shrugging as he offered a crooked grin. "The Duskwardens are human too."
"Don't they... have enough money?" Ethan asked, trying to steady his thoughts.
"You mean they don't lack the money to survive," Flint corrected, striking a match against his thumbnail. He inhaled deep, the cherry of his cigarette illuminating his gaunt cheeks. "No, they don't starve. They don't sweat over Lumcore. But once you don't have to worry about your stomach, the rot starts. Desire crawls out of the floorboards like those Gloomcrawlers we saw last night."
He leaned close, his smoke-laden breath hot against Ethan's ear. "Tell me, kid. What's the real difference between us and them?"
A million things, Ethan thought. But he kept his mouth shut. Flint operated on a level far above him; a smart rat didn't squeaking in front of an owl.
"They stand guard all night, we sweat all night. That's it," Flint murmured, staring into the dark. "Their white uniforms look pristine, sure. But we get to collapse into bed when the shift ends. They have to scrub every speck of grime off those coats. It’s their shield, their symbol. A single stain is a demotion."
Ethan hadn't considered that. Pristine white. A curse disguised as a privilege.
"They have the power of life and death over us," Flint continued, the easy humor gone from his eyes. He wasn't teaching anymore; he was confessing to the dark. "But there's always a knife hovering over their throats, too. They eat, they shit, they bleed. They just crave different toys. Our coin buys Lumcore. Theirs buys respectability. They grew up on praise and high expectations. To them, a bruised ego is worse than a bullet. At the end of the day, we’re all digging in the same dirt."
Flint flicked the spent butt into a dry pit where the Inkslag had stopped bubbling. He clapped Ethan's shoulder. "Back to it. I held up my end. Don't forget yours."
"What do you want from me, Flint?"
"Why the rush?" Flint stood up, stretching his back with a series of pops. "We'll talk when the sun's up."
"Pardon the mess. Your front door was terribly fragile."
The Tailcoat stood in the grand foyer of the Marlowe villa, framed by a rain of splintered mahogany. Behind him, three masked figures filed in. Two immediately took positions by the tall, arched windows, weapons drawn. The third stepped up to Victor Marlowe, casually tossing a glowing smartphone from hand to hand.
The phone belonged to the Mayor.
"The Nightbound..." Victor’s voice rasped, the blood draining from his face.
The name alone carried a stench of lawlessness and slaughter. They weren't mere thugs; they were monsters gifted with talents that rivaled the Duskwardens. Sometimes, they were even more lethal.
No one in the room had expected the Nightbound to hit Northridge City. They had never operated here. Victor had taken no precautions. It was his daughter's birthday—a private, intimate affair. He had deliberately kept the Duskwardens away because of their metallic, sulfurous odor. He had enough Lumcore to keep the Voidstriders at bay, and the absolute dark of the outer districts should have kept the common dregs away. Desperate men didn't have the means to cross the void.
But these weren't common dregs.
"Miss Marlowe, happy birthday," The Tailcoat said, ignoring the Mayor. He swept his right hand to his chest, bending into an elegant, mocking bow.
Even Petra, sheltered as she was, recognized the sudden drop in temperature. "What... what do you want?"
"A wonderful question," The Tailcoat replied, straightening up. "We are here to kidnap you."
"K-Kidnap?!" a young girl shrieked from the crowd. "Are you insane? Petra is—"
She choked on her own words. Petra was the Mayor's daughter. But they were in the Mayor's house. The masked men obviously knew exactly who she was.
Panic rippled through the guests, but Victor's older, seasoned associates tried to maintain their composure. One man stepped forward, squaring his shoulders.
"Gentlemen, if it's money you want, name a price," the man said, his voice projecting a false authority. "Petra is just a child. Don't terrify her. Talk to me. I can arrange whatever you need."
The Tailcoat tilted his head. Behind his mask, his eyes crinkled with amusement.
Before the negotiator could utter another syllable, a crimson Dao blade erupted from his breastbone.
The steel was slick, steaming with his blood.
Screams shattered the room. The girls scrambled backward, tripping over chairs. The negotiator stood frozen, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish, dark blood bubbling over his lips and soaking into his silk tie. His eyes bulged, filled with a frantic, desperate regret. If he could have turned back the clock, he would never have tried to play the hero for Victor Marlowe.
The Tailcoat was definitely laughing now. His voice dripped with dark amusement as he pulled the blade free.
"All that money," he scoffed, "and not a drop of fucking sense."
Morning light finally cracked the horizon, spilling cold grey over the concrete yard of the Westside Processing Plant.
Ethan stood in the checkout line, his eyes constantly darting toward Flint Voss. The older man was sitting on a crate, meticulously folding a dollar bill into a paper airplane.
Around Ethan, the exhausted harvesters stepped away from the pay table, their hollow faces lighting up with brief, desperate smiles as the coins hit their palms. Ethan felt none of that.
Yesterday, he had prayed for the line to move faster. Today, he wished the sun would freeze in place. It was cowardice, plain and simple. The longer he stayed in line, the longer he could pretend Flint didn’t own his soul. But the queue kept moving.
Eventually, he stood before the Duskwarden.
Five hundred credits.
Two hundred less than his first day. It made sense; he’d spent half the night plotting Warren's murder instead of harvesting. But the deduction didn't sting. A few hundred credits couldn't solve the absolute clusterfuck his life had become anyway.
He took the notes and turned to leave, but a cold voice cut through his thoughts.
"Get back here."
Ethan froze, turning slowly.
The Duskwarden stared at him, his finger tapping the wooden table. "You forgot to say thank you."
Ethan’s chest tightened. He bowed his head quickly. "Thank you."
The Duskwarden let out a dry snort and waved him off.
Ethan walked quickly toward Flint. Flint was holding a sleek, black smartphone. To Ethan, a device like that was a relic of another world—a luxury he couldn't afford in three lifetimes. But then he remembered Flint casually dropping two thousand credits to buy a man's death. A phone was pocket change to someone like him.
"Yeah, copy that. We'll talk in person," Flint murmured, ending the call. He looked up, his expression unreadable, while Ethan felt like a condemned man waiting for the noose to tighten.
"Relax, kid. I'm not going to ask for your head," Flint said. "Where do you live?"
Ethan blinked. "What?"
"You buy Lumcore, which means you have a roof over your head. Give me the address."
"Why?" Ethan’s survival instincts flared.
"To live in, obviously," Flint said, rolling his eyes. "A friend of mine is dodging some bad rent. Needs a place to crash for a bit."
"That's... that's your price?" Ethan asked, trying to find the catch.
If it was just the basement, he would give it up in a heartbeat. Yesterday, he wouldn't have dared risk Chloe and Ryan's safety. But Warren was dead. Hayes was unprotected. Even if Ryan had failed to slit Hayes's throat, Ethan would finish the job himself.
Once the Calloway brothers were taken care of, their apartment would be empty. Ethan, Ryan, and Chloe could move in there. Giving Flint the basement was actually perfect—it kept Ryan and Chloe far away from whatever mess Flint was bringing.
"Yeah, that’s it," Flint said, his tone growing bored. "Lend me the keys, and we're square."
"Just... just like that?" Ethan breathed. If he had known the price was so low, he wouldn't have spent the last three hours sweating blood.
"What, you think it's too cheap?" Flint sneered. "You want to sleep with me instead to even the score?"
Ethan instinctively took a half-step back, making Flint burst into a harsh laugh.
"Flint... thank you. Seriously." Ethan meant it. If Flint had demanded some suicidal task, Ethan would have done it, but he would have hated him for it. This was different.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the five hundred credits he’d just earned, peeled off a single hundred-credit bill, and thrust the rest toward Flint.
If they moved into the Calloway place, they had enough Lumcore to last six days. He could afford to be broke for a morning. If he didn't need that last hundred for something specific, he would have given Flint the whole damn pile. It was the only way he knew how to show respect.
Flint stared at the bills. A flicker of something complicated—maybe pity, maybe regret—crossed his eyes before his face went blank again.
"Keep your money," Flint said, pushing Ethan's hand away. "Just give me the keys, write down the address, and get the hell out of here."
Ethan didn't argue. He handed over the rusted key, wrote the street name on a scrap of paper, and felt a massive weight lift from his shoulders.
It was over. The debt was paid. All he had to do now was harvest, survive, and...
The Voidseep.
He pushed the thought down. One crisis at a time.
He began the walk back to the Calloway apartment. By the time he navigated the winding alleys, stopping twice along the way, the clock on a distant tower was chiming nine in the morning.
The easy relief he had felt at the plant vanished as he reached the door.
He didn't knock.
He had no idea if Ryan had succeeded. He needed to assess the situation first. But just in case, his hand was shoved deep into his pocket, his fingers wrapped tightly around the grip of a heavy, razor-sharp kitchen knife.
The hundred credits he’d kept. This was what they were for.
If Ryan had failed, Ethan would use this blade to carve Hayes Calloway to pieces himself.
Standing in the dim hallway, Ethan took deep, slow breaths, forcing the tension out of his face. Hayes was a brute; if the monster opened the door, Ethan had to look completely clueless. He couldn't let Hayes see the malice in his eyes.
Then, the smell hit him.
A metallic, sweet stench seeping through the cracks of the door.
Yesterday, he wouldn't have recognized it. But last night, Warren's blood had painted his face. The copper tang was burned into his memory.
His stomach churned. The uncertainty of what lay behind the wood made his chest tight, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Calm down. Just breathe.
His breathing only grew heavier, rattling in his throat.
Before he could steady his hand, the brass doorknob turned.
The door swung inward.
Standing in the frame, staring down at him, was Hayes Calloway.