The lid of the trash can suddenly opened with a loud creak.
"Hey! Get out of there, brat!"
I woke up startled, blinking against the faint light coming into the alley. A dirty, bearded man with an unfriendly face stared down at me, holding the lid with one grimy hand.
"I leave for one day and someone's already taking over my room?" he complained, irritated. "This is my spot, kid!"
I slowly got up, feeling my back ache after spending the night curled up inside. I climbed out of the trash can without saying anything, brushing the dirt off my clothes with my hands.
"You messed everything up!" he continued, angrily gesturing inside the can. "Look at this! All my stuff is out of place!"
He muttered something else and, without waiting for a response, jumped into the trash can, starting to rearrange his old rags as if I wasn't even there.
"Get out of here," he muttered without even looking at me. "Go find somewhere else to sleep. This can is mine."
I stood there for a second, looking at him.
I didn't have the energy to argue.
"My bad."
I left the alley without looking back, still feeling the smell of garbage clinging to my clothes. The sun was already a bit higher, but the air was still cold. My stomach growled loudly, reminding me that I needed to eat something before things got worse.
As I walked toward the assistance post, I passed through a narrow street full of old shops. One of them caught my attention. The display window was dirty, but I could still see inside. I stopped in front of it.
There, leaning against a worn wooden stand, was a rifle.
Long barrel, dark wooden stock full of scratches and signs of use. It looked like something from the time of the Great War — rough, reliable, but heavily worn by time. The sights were simple, iron-made, and the finish was oxidized in some parts. It didn't seem to have any kind of transformation mechanism.
I stared at it like an idiot, almost pressing my nose against the glass.
"Damn… looks like a modified Mosin-Nagant. Even worn like that, it should still have good accuracy. Simple mechanism… perfect for someone who just wants the gun to work."
I was practically drooling. It was the kind of weapon I used to see in old war documentaries.
Then my eyes dropped to the small price tag.
3,000 Lien.
I blinked.
Three thousand Lien. It was much cheaper than normal for a rifle of that caliber — probably because it was old, worn, and lacked any modern mechanisms.
But even so, I don't even have enough to rent a room.
"Easy there, sweetheart… daddy'll come back for you."
I stared at the rifle for a few more seconds, then shook my head and kept walking toward the food post.
.---.---.---.
The food dropped onto my plate.
Watery rice, beans, and a small piece of stale bread.
My face twisted in disgust as I looked at the guy handing out the food, like this was some kind of bad joke.
He didn't even look back at me.
"NEXT!"
Three hours in line for this.
I let out a quiet sigh and went to sit on a wooden bench.
The rough wood creaked under my weight, and I sank into my thoughts.
Am I really cut out for this? Maybe I wasn't made to survive outside the mansion.
This isn't even close to those shows on TV.
…This isn't how it was supposed to start.
If I went back, I could eat good food, sleep in a comfortable bed… and even buy that rifle.
Damn… I could buy dozens of them if I wanted.
I could start a collection… how did I never think of that before?!
Whitley, you weren't made for this. You're rich. You don't need to go through this. Back there, you had everything… food, comfort, security. None of this is worth it.
If you go back, you'll become the heir to everything… isn't that what you always wanted?
To go back to being…
"A puppet blindly obeying orders…"
The memory of Weiss's words hit me like a punch.
Damn it… even from far away she still manages to haunt me.
But… I kind of miss her.
I finished the piece of bread, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and stood up from the bench with a dramatic motion.
I puffed out my chest, raised my chin, and declared out loud in the most grand and theatrical tone I could manage:
"Get your head up, Whitley! Great men don't give up in the first week. Great men write their own legends!"
I paused, as if expecting imaginary applause.
"You are the incredible Whitley Schnee! The greatest who ever lived and ever will! The boy who jumped off a waterfall and survived! The one who escaped bandits, terrorists, and a stinking cage! You were not made to hide in trash cans or eat watery rice!"
I smiled to myself, proud of my little speech.
But if I don't do anything, they'll just be empty words.
I clenched my fists and straightened my shoulders.
That's when I heard two nearby voices talking quietly. I recognized them immediately — the same guys who were talking about "dangerous jobs" in the assistance line.
"Opportunity," I muttered under my breath.
Without thinking twice, I started following them discreetly, keeping a safe distance as they walked into an alley.
.---.---.---.
It had been about fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes following two guys who clearly didn't want to be followed.
Genius, Whitley. Truly a flawless plan.
I kept my distance, trying to look like just another lost person, but every corner they turned led me deeper into a dirtier part of the city. The streets grew narrower, darker, quieter.
They stopped in front of a low, old concrete building with peeling paint and broken windows. It looked like an abandoned workshop or warehouse. The rusty sign was barely readable.
As they approached the metal door, I hid behind a stack of old crates and listened closely.
"You sure?" one of them muttered.
"It's this or starve. Your choice."
The door opened just a little. A few quiet words were exchanged and they went inside.
I waited a few seconds, taking a deep breath.
Well… either this works, or I'm dead.
I walked up to the door, trying to look more confident than I felt. I raised my hand and repeated the pattern I had heard.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
Pause.
KNOCK.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then a small slot in the door slid open. Two cold eyes stared at me.
"Who are you?"
I swallowed, but kept my voice steady.
"I'm with the guys who just went in… I, uhh… had to take a leak. I get nervous in this kind of situation."
I almost cringed hearing my own words. The guy on the other side stared at me in silence for a second that felt like an eternity. I could practically hear him deciding whether to punch me or just tell me to get lost.
Whitley, you idiot. That was a terrible excuse.
He's not letting you in. He's probably going to beat you up. But you have aura now… you can probably run, right?
The silence stretched. My heart was beating so hard I was sure he could hear it through the door.
Finally, the slot closed with a sharp click.
Shit. That's it.
I was already getting ready to turn and run when I heard the metallic sound of the lock being pulled.
CLANG.
The door opened just enough for me to slip through.
"Get in," the man grunted, clearly irritated. "And if you piss anywhere that isn't the bathroom, I'll throw you out myself."
I stepped in quickly before he changed his mind, feeling relief mixed with a good dose of embarrassment.
As soon as I crossed the door, the noise of the street died behind me.
The place was bigger than it looked from the outside — an old warehouse, lit only by a few weak bulbs hanging from the ceiling. The light flickered now and then, making everything feel even more… temporary.
Wooden crates were scattered around, some stacked, others used as makeshift seats.
People filled almost all of them.
Most were sitting.
They look like they're waiting for something…
Refugees.
But not only that.
Some people clearly weren't desperate, they were used to this. Sharp eyes, posture way too relaxed for someone who should be worried.
My gaze swept the place until it landed on a guy sitting farther away, leaning against a crate in the corner.
He wasn't restless like the others.
Just… still.
Staring ahead, like he was thinking about something.
I need to blend in and look confident.
I took a deep breath and walked over to him, trying to look like I knew what I was doing.
I stopped beside him, not really sure how to start.
"…It's crowded in here, isn't it?"
No response.
"First time?"
I stood there for a few more seconds, rocking slightly on my heels. The guy didn't even blink. Eyes open, fixed on the opposite wall like a statue. Impressive.
"So… what's the deal here?" I asked my silent neighbor, trying again. "Is this like an auction for dirty jobs? 'Come die for minimum wage plus a bonus'?"
Total silence.
I kept going, now with a smug little smile, lowering my voice like I was sharing a secret:
"Look, trust me. I'm good at this. I've escaped bandits, terrorists, jumped off a waterfall and survived. If you want, just follow me and I'll show you how it's done. We'll get out of this together. I lead, you watch my back. Perfect combo."
I paused dramatically, as if expecting approval.
"I'm the incredible Witley Schnauzer. Big things are coming. You'll see."
No response. Not even a movement.
I sighed.
"Alright, strong and silent type. Respect."
Then the smell hit me.
I wrinkled my nose, leaning slightly away.
"Damn… you smell like shit, man," I muttered. "I slept inside a trash can yesterday and you smell worse than me."
Right then, a rough voice cut through the low murmur of the warehouse:
"Listen up, you bastards!"
A skinny man with a greasy ponytail and a scar running across his face climbed onto a crate in the center.
"Today we've got three good jobs for anyone who needs quick cash. Whoever comes back alive gets paid. Whoever doesn't… tough luck."
He raised three fingers.
"First: escorting a shipment to the port. Risk of some annoying guards. Pay: 900 Lien."
"Second: security for a delivery in the south district. Might get rough. Pay: 1,500 Lien."
The man paused, smirking slightly.
"Third… the highest paying one. There's an abandoned warehouse about twenty kilometers from the city. Reports of strange activity. We need people to scout it out, clear whatever's there, and bring back anything valuable. Pay: 4,000 Lien per person. Half upfront."
I looked around. Most people looked like refugees, just like me: dirty, tired, desperate. Only a few looked like they actually belonged to this kind of life.
Leaving the city sounds like a bad idea… and they don't seem very trustworthy.
But screw it… I have Aura.
I took a deep breath, puffed out my chest, and raised my hand confidently.
"I'll take the third!"
A few heads turned. The scarred man raised an eyebrow, then just shrugged.
"Whatever. One more for the third. After the meeting, grab your advance."
I lowered my hand, feeling a wave of excitement mixed with nerves.
"And you? Which one are you taking?"
Silence.
This is starting to get annoying.
I was about to say something else when the guy's body — the one leaning against the crate like he was just sitting there — suddenly slumped to the side.
He dropped heavily right at my feet. His shoulder hit my legs with a dull thud, and his body just stayed there, sprawled on the ground, eyes open and lifeless.
I froze.
Completely.
I stood there, staring down at the corpse at my feet. My brain took a full second to process it.
"…Oh, boy."
The words slipped out quietly.
I took a quick step back, then another, putting distance between me and the body.
I glanced around the warehouse, checking if anyone had noticed. No one seemed to. People were still sitting or paying attention to the scarred man.
Without saying another word, I moved farther away and went to a quieter corner of the warehouse. I stopped near a pile of old crates, crossed my arms, and stayed silent, just watching.
Never again am I trying to start a conversation with anyone.
Especially not with a corpse.
I leaned against the crates, arms crossed, staring at the dirty floor. The scarred man kept talking about the details of the jobs.
After a few minutes, my eyes swept the place again. In a corner of the wall, partially hidden behind some crates, there was a symbol painted in black spray paint: a stylized spider, long legs stretched over a web.
I frowned slightly.
A spider…? What the hell does that mean?
I looked back at the scarred man and noticed he had the same spider tattooed on his left forearm, clearly visible whenever he gestured. Identical.
"…that doesn't seem like a coincidence," I thought.
But I shook my head and pushed the thought aside. Not the time to analyze tattoos.
The man clapped twice, drawing everyone's attention.
"Alright, listen up! Group one, follow that guy over there in the red coat. Group two, follow the woman in the black jacket. And the ones taking the third job…"
He pointed at himself.
"…come here to get your advance. Two thousand Lien now. The rest when you come back and we confirm the job's done right. Then go home, get ready, eat something, do whatever you need to do. But be back here in exactly one hour. If anyone tries to run off with the advance, we'll come after you. And it won't be pretty. Got it?"
Some people muttered "got it" or simply nodded.
I uncrossed my arms and walked toward the center along with the others who had chosen the third job.