Chapter 5: Ambush

  I let the strange, flickering aura fade from my senses as I sank into the backseat of the sedan. The moment the energy left my eyes, the world dulled a little and became normal again. Less vivid, less sharp. The car interior smelled like leather and old incense, like someone tried to cover up the scent of something mechanical with something ancient.

  King slid into the front passenger seat, of course he picked shotgun. He was the type.

  I buckled in and stared at the back of his head. “So,” I said casually, “tell me about my sister.”

  He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “You were right. She’s on her way to landing a Director position. Eastern Region.”

  I blinked.

  Huh.

  “Good for her,” I muttered, unsure if I meant it. I think I did. I wanted to. My chest felt tight, but not in a jealous way. Just… distant. Like I was watching someone else’s sibling achieve something monumental.

  The car glided smoothly through the city, low buildings and neon lights blurring by.

  “So,” I said, shifting topics, “what’s your ESP called?”

  He snorted. “That’s a rude question for a first meeting.”

  I smirked. “It’s a leading question, actually.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. Because if you answer mine, I’ll answer yours.”

  “What’s yours?”

  I met his gaze in the mirror. “Yes. That’s the point.”

  That earned me a pause. He didn’t say anything for a few seconds.

  Then I said it anyway: “I have amnesia.”

  His body didn’t stiffen, didn’t react in any visible way, but I knew he took it in.

  “I woke up a few days ago with no memory,” I continued. “I’ve been piecing things together since. Everything’s scattered. Diane… she’s the first solid thing I’ve got. And now you.”

  Still silence from the front.

  “So, I’m just saying… transparency’s my best option right now. I’m not trying to be clever or manipulative. I don’t even care if I end up in prison. Honestly, it might be a relief.”

  That got his attention.

  I leaned my head against the cool window.

  “Think about it. The ESPer Association is the world’s peacekeeping force. My sister’s got real clout. If I cooperate, stay alive, maybe I don’t have to keep running. Maybe I get protection.”

  “You’re seriously okay with prison?”

  “If it keeps me breathing? Hell yes. Give me a cell. A hobby. Maybe a library. I’ll read. I’ll write. Paint, even. Maybe a mental hospital would be better… somewhere quiet. Controlled.”

  “You’re one strange guy, Goodman,” King muttered.

  “I’m tired, King.”

  The car slowed suddenly.

  Traffic.

  I frowned. We were in a dense part of the city, where the lights from signs, traffic signals, and store fronts flooded the street in a disorienting mosaic of neon. Everything was too bright, too colorful. It gave me a headache.

  I blinked hard.

  No… not a headache.

  I was… tired.

  Way too tired.

  My limbs felt heavy, like I’d been swimming in molasses. My mouth tasted like metal. My head lolled forward, and I fought to lift it again. King wasn’t moving.

  “King?” I whispered.

  No response.

  His chin rested on his chest, arms slack at his sides.

  He was asleep.

  Just like that.

  My pulse quickened, but my body refused to follow suit.

  I lifted my eyes to the rearview mirror, heart thudding like a drum.

  The driver turned around to face me.

  And smiled.

  My eyes widened.

  It was him.

  The driver from the cab. The one who dropped me off at the internet café.

  “Weird flex, I know,” he said, voice smooth and satisfied. “Goodnight, Gavin.”

  And then darkness swallowed me whole.

  I woke up with a jolt, cold and upright, breath catching in my throat.

  A creaking echo reverberated through the vast, empty space around me. It smelled of rust, dust, and old chemicals… like history had been forgotten here and left to rot. My arms burned from behind me, tied. Thick ropes bit into my wrists. My legs were similarly bound to the legs of the wooden chair beneath me.

  I rolled my neck, felt the sting of sore muscles. My head throbbed in time with my heartbeat. Every part of me protested movement.

  To my right was a low groan.

  King.

  His head lolled on his shoulder, but even unconscious, his posture screamed resistance. The ropes dug into his chest and biceps, holding him down. He was out cold.

  "Lookie, lookie, who is awake!"

  The voice came from directly ahead, too chipper for this graveyard of a setting. That tone, just shy of mocking and positively gleeful… was unmistakable.

  The cab driver.

  No… the bounty hunter.

  He emerged from behind a metal beam, bouncing on his heels like a kid at a candy store.

  “How you feelin’, sunshine?” he asked, tilting his head at me like I was some exotic bug pinned to a board.

  I didn’t answer right away.

  Instead, I let the flickering aura rise behind my eyes again. That strange power, still unnamed, still poorly understood, hummed against my skin like static.

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  The world sharpened.

  I noticed details, more than I should. My ESP didn’t create new senses, it amplified the ones I already had. Sight, touch, cognition. Like every neuron had been tuned a notch higher. The fatigue dulled in comparison to the clarity rushing in.

  I took him in, calmly. Short. About 5’2. Slim build, but his movement had the precision of someone trained. Military? Martial arts? Definitely disciplined.

  Young. Early twenties. Clear complexion. No visible tattoos or piercings. But what struck me most were the gloves… black leather, snug fit. And a faint white smear near his neckline.

  “You shaved in a hurry,” I said, my voice low but steady.

  He blinked. “What?”

  “There’s a bit of shaving cream on your neck. Left side. Just above the collar. Missed a spot.”

  He rubbed his neck on instinct, then paused, realizing the cream was indeed there.

  “Oh-ho-ho,” he laughed, not even embarrassed. “You’re good.”

  I kept going. Calm. Detached.

  “Hand sanitizer on your belt loop. Keychain style. And there… wet wipes. On the table next to our stuff. You’re a clean freak.”

  He gave an exaggerated bow. “Guilty as charged.”

  My gaze shifted slightly to the makeshift table, an overturned crate. Our belongings were laid out with obsessive precision. My leather jacket. My sunglasses. My phone, powered off. King’s phone. His sheathed sword, oddly untouched. And a briefcase. Locked.

  “Now the biggest mystery,” I said, eyes narrowing on the briefcase, “is what a low-level bounty hunter wants with a government-issued bounty of only 200,000 psis.”

  He grinned wider, like I’d just told him his favorite joke.

  “You think twenty thousand psis is small change?” he chuckled, pacing now, arms wide like he was addressing an invisible audience. “Oh, sweet Gavin. You’ve been out of the loop far too long.”

  “Enlighten me,” I said, more curious than threatened.

  He stopped pacing and leaned in just a bit, his grin twisted into something darker.

  “It’s not the money, my man. It’s you. You’re a black swan. A variable. A wild card. And there are people who would pay way more than twenty grand to get their hands on you.”

  I swallowed hard, keeping my expression still.

  He kept talking.

  “See, the official bounty? That’s just bait. The real prize is in who gets to keep you. ESPer Association wants you. Certain rogue syndicates want you. Hell, even the some terrorist remnants have whispered your name.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

  “You’re valuable,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “More than you know. That thing you do… your ESP? People would kill for a sliver of that kind of enhancement. And me?” He laughed again. “I just wanna be the guy who brings you in. Who flips the board.”

  He turned and walked toward the briefcase, resting one hand on it like it was holy.

  “And this little baby?” he said, patting the top. “Let’s just say it’s part of a… secondary deal.”

  My eyes flicked to King, still unmoving. Then back to the hunter.

  I exhaled slowly. Time to stay sharp. Time to stall. Think.

  If this guy was freelancing, caught between factions, then maybe he wasn’t working with Diane. Maybe she didn’t even know I’d been taken.

  But I couldn’t count on rescue.

  I had to get us out myself.

  I just hoped King woke up soon.

  My eyes flicked again to the briefcase, its matte-black surface catching the overhead light like a silent dare.

  “So,” I said, casually as I could manage, “what’s in the box?”

  The bounty hunter glanced at it and gave a theatrical shrug. “You don’t know?” His grin returned. “Pity you.”

  “I’ve had a rough week,” I muttered. “Forgive me if I’m not up to speed on mysterious suitcases people try to kidnap me for. So, bounty hunter, what is it gonna be? Let’s skip the prelude and get to the point why you are talking to me right now and not outright sending me to the people who is very much interested on me.”

  That got a small laugh. Then he placed a hand over his chest and gave a slight, almost courtly bow.

  “Manuel. Just Manuel. I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but I think we both know the circumstances are... less than ideal.”

  “You don’t say.”

  He stepped closer, dragging a rusted stool from the shadows and sitting down across from me, as if we were about to share a drink.

  “I’ve got OCD,” he said, unprompted. “Shaving’s a ritual before any job. Something clean, sharp, deliberate about it. Like a soldier polishing his rifle before a war.”

  “Explains the aftershave,” I said dryly. “And the wipes. And the sanitizer. And probably your matching socks.”

  He smiled like I was the first person in days who’d spoken his language.

  “Guilty on all counts.”

  “And the job?” I asked, nodding to King. “Isn’t murder a bit messy for someone so… pristine?”

  He tilted his head and sighed, as if I'd asked a question a bit too obvious for his taste.

  “Killing him? Nah. That’d be stupid. The Association would notice if one of their pet swordsmen just went dark. Might raise my threat level. Or worse…” He leaned in. “They could issue a Kill Order. Once that’s out, I’m not just a man with a job… I’m a walking target.”

  “So you keep him alive.”

  “For now.”

  Manuel stood, wandered back to the table. He picked up King’s sword… slowly, reverently, like it was a relic from a past life. He unsheathed it with a hiss that cut the silence.

  The blade gleamed, long, slightly curved, and sharp enough to split hairs.

  “You ever wonder why someone like me would go after someone like you?” he asked, admiring the edge.

  “All the time,” I said. “Usually around the time I’m being tied to a chair.”

  He chuckled again. “See, here’s the thing. That bounty the government put out on you? Chump change. 200,000 psis? That’s not even enough to buy a Class B equipment. It’s not a real price. It’s a breadcrumb.”

  “Then why bother?”

  “Because it’s not for me,” he said. “It’s for the nobodies. The scavengers. The civvies. Just enough to tempt the desperate or the stupid into tipping off the government. But not enough to make them charge in guns blazing.”

  “Minimizing casualties,” I said, finishing his thought.

  He nodded. “And filtering noise. But people like me?” He grinned again, then let the sheath fall to the floor with a clatter. “We don’t work for the government.”

  He swung the sword lazily, like a bat in a sandlot, feeling the weight, testing the balance.

  “We get our bounties from a different source entirely.”

  My brow furrowed. “The black market.”

  He pointed the sword at me, like I’d earned a prize.

  “Ding ding ding. Now you’re catching up.”

  “You get paid under the table for kidnapping ESPers.”

  “For finding them. For tagging them. For delivering them to the right people. And the right people?” He twirled the sword before resting the tip against the ground. “They don’t always wear suits or badges. Sometimes they wear robes. Or masks. Or they don’t wear anything at all except an idea of what the world should be.”

  “And me?” I asked, voice quiet but steady. “Which one do I go to?”

  “That,” he said with a wink, “depends on who wins the bidding war.”

  He turned away, heading back toward the table, and I felt the ropes around my wrists flex just a little with my movement. Not much. Not enough. But I filed it away.

  Manuel had his monologue. Now I just had to wait for his mistake.

  And hope King woke up before I got sold to the highest bidder.

  “Look what I got here!”

  Manuel’s voice rang out with an overenthusiastic pitch that grated instantly. He returned to the center of the room with a laptop tucked under one arm and a bulky camera slung over the other like a prize buck.

  He set the camera down and began unfolding a tripod with methodical ease. Click. Twist. Snap.

  I tensed without meaning to.

  “Smile,” he said without even glancing at me, plugging in the camera. “We’re gonna livestream it.”

  “Seriously?” I said. “A snuff stream?”

  He turned toward me, all wide eyes and smug satisfaction. “Oh, no no no. Not a snuff stream.” He tapped his temple. “This is performance art, Goodman. Theater. War propaganda. Market-driven enterprise.”

  He connected the camera to the laptop with a USB cable and powered them both on. The soft whir of the lens adjusting filled the silence, followed by the chirp of a connection being established.

  Manuel’s fingers danced across the keyboard like he’d done this a hundred times.

  And I was pretty sure he had.

  “In the next fifteen minutes or so,” he said, adjusting the angle of the camera to frame both King and me in the shot, “I’ll kill your swordsman bodyguard right here, nice and clean. And the ESPer Association?”

  He smiled at the lens now.

  “They’ll find out. Oh, they always do. Somehow. Like clockwork. Which makes this whole thing a hell of a lot more fun.”

  I stared at him, heart pounding. King still hadn’t stirred. A bruise was forming just above his temple… whatever drug Manuel used clearly packed a punch.

  “What do you think this is going to accomplish?” I asked.

  He ignored me, addressing the camera now.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the network,” he announced, his voice suddenly professional, “we are live in the Eastern Quadrant. And what a treat we have tonight… oh yes, a very special occasion.”

  He stepped aside like a game show host revealing a prize.

  “Here we have our swordsman… yes, the very one rumored to be a personal envoy of the Eastern Director-to-be, Diane Goodman herself.” He gave a wink to the lens. “Sleeping beauty won’t last long, so place your bets early.”

  I gritted my teeth.

  “And next to him?” He gestured with exaggerated flair. “Our mystery guest of the hour. Mr. Gavin Goodman. Yes, that one. The sexiest man alive as of the past week. The black swan. The wildcard in the house of cards.”

  He leaned down, face suddenly close to mine, voice dropping to a whisper only I could hear.

  “And the man everyone wants.”

  He straightened again, twirling his fingers theatrically before pointing to the briefcase on the table.

  “Now, here’s the deal, my dear bidders. The price of this little two-in-one package is a certain journal… you know the one. The one everyone seems a little too interested in lately.”

  He leaned closer to the camera, whispering like a conspirator.

  “I don’t know what’s inside it. Honestly, I don’t care. Could be a shopping list, could be the last words of a dead god. But if you want this deal?”

  I blinked slowly, forcing calm even as my fingers quietly tested the rope behind my back again. It was still tight. But Manuel was distracted now. Focused on his audience. Performing.

  I could feel it… that aura within me. That low static hum. My ESP didn’t give me fireballs or psychic screams: it made me see, understand, and notice. And right now, I needed to notice everything.

  “Bold of you,” I said. “To assume I’m just going to sit here while you auction me off.”

  Manuel laughed, already reading comments off the screen. His grin widened.

  “Oh, don’t worry, my good man. You won't feel a thing.”

  Then he looked directly into the camera again, eyes alight.

  “Alright, bidders. You’ve got fifteen minutes. The auction is open. Bidding starts… now!”

  Dear Readers,

  Aura Farming! I truly hope you're enjoying the story so far. As you might have noticed, I’ve made the decision to write the entire story in consistent past tense, and I’ve gone ahead and edited the earlier chapters to reflect this change. I felt this shift would give the narrative a more seamless flow and provide a deeper connection to the events unfolding.