The lively energy of the city hit Miles like a wave as he and Hyperion returned from the dungeon. After selling their loot, which fetched a pretty penny thanks to Hyperion’s impressive negotiating skills, Miles was already thinking about how to spend the money he’d earned.

  “I’m treating you tonight,” Miles declared with a dramatic flair, puffing out his chest as if he’d done more than cheer Hyperion on and occasionally roll dice for luck.

  Hyperion arched a brow. “With what money? Didn’t you just spend half of it on that ridiculous cape?”

  Miles dramatically flicked the edge of said cape. “It’s not ridiculous—it’s People respect a guy with a cape.”

  The system chimed in, sounding drier than sandpaper

  Correction: People respect someone who earns the right to wear a cape. Currently, you’re just cosplaying as a wealthy idiot.

  Miles ignored the system entirely. “Seriously, though. You did all the heavy lifting back there. The least I can do is buy you dinner. Think of it as my way of saying thanks for being the hero while I...supervised.”

  Hyperion sighed but nodded. “Fine. But leave the cape at the inn. We don’t need anyone mistaking you for a magician who got lost on his way to a children’s birthday party.”

  Miles grumbled under his breath but relented, draping his cape over his shoulder dramatically as they strolled through the bustling market square. The air was rich with the aroma of roasted meats and spiced bread, tempting Miles to splurge on snacks despite his plans for dinner.

  But Hyperion suddenly froze, his sharp gaze locking onto a small group of men huddled a few feet away. Miles glanced over and saw nothing unusual—just some rough-looking individuals muttering to each other.

  “What’s up?” Miles asked, lowering his voice to match Hyperion’s seriousness.

  “Beast part smuggling,” Hyperion muttered, his voice tight with barely contained disgust. “It’s a banned practice, but these illegal operations are growing. They raid dungeons recklessly, destroy ecosystems, and even use civilians as bait to lure in monsters.”

  Miles felt a shiver crawl down his spine. “That’s...horrifying.”

  “It is,” Hyperion said grimly. “And it’s not just about money. These groups are organized, ruthless, and desperate. It’s why so many towns are in chaos.”

  The thought made Miles uneasy, and he couldn’t help but ask, “Are you going to stop them?”

  Hyperion shook his head. “Not yet. I need to figure out who’s in charge and how far this goes.”

  Miles’s stomach churned. He felt helpless—and guilty. “Should we check out the auction they’re talking about?”

  The system interrupted loudly in his head.

  Warning: Rolling for this decision is not advised. Do not engage. This situation is far beyond your capacity.

  Miles groaned. “You’re always so dramatic.”

  Dramatic is your middle name. I’m pragmatic. Listen to me this time.

  Hyperion noticed the tension on Miles’s face. “You don’t have to worry about this. It’s not your fight.”

  Miles nodded quickly, relieved to have an out. “Yeah. No fight for me. Let’s just have dinner.”

  ______

  The evening passed uneventfully—good food, good conversation, and just enough humor to keep the system’s comments from making Miles storm off in a huff. By the time they returned to the inn, Miles was ready to collapse.

  But somewhere in the night, Miles stirred awake. He groggily blinked, listening to the faint creaks and rustles outside his door.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Hyperion?” he mumbled sleepily, but no answer came.

  The system suddenly flared to life.

  Alert: Multiple presences detected in your immediate vicinity.

  “What?” Miles bolted upright, his heart pounding. “Are you saying there are—”

  The door to his room slammed open, and several shadowy figures rushed in.

  Miles barely had time to scream before a hand clamped over his mouth. “Quiet, little one,” a gruff voice hissed. “We’re not here to hurt you...unless you make us.”

  The system buzzed in his ear, unhelpfully calm.

  Roll to avoid being taken hostage.

  Miles, in a panic, mentally rolled. The result was abysmal. A mere 1 2

  Result: Critical failure. You are now a hostage. Try to look cooperative.

  “I’m not even resisting!” Miles thought furiously as he was yanked out of bed, tied up, and dragged out of the room.

  The men whispered hurriedly as they hauled him through the dark streets.

  “You sure this is the guy?”

  “Of course it is. Rumors about his ‘luck’ spread through the whole city after that dungeon run. No human is that lucky. He’s gotta be some kind of freak—or worse, a rare beast in disguise.”

  “Think he’s worth something?”

  “If not, we’ll make sure he pays for wasting our time.”

  Miles’s panic grew. “System,” he hissed in his thoughts, “what are the odds I survive this?”

  Roll for survival probability.

  Miles rolled again, his heart sinking as the result hovered between “not likely” and “miracle required.”

  Suggestion: Stall for time and pray Hyperion finds you.

  “Fantastic plan,” Miles thought bitterly. “How do I stall?”

  You could start by telling them you’re not a beast. Although that would be a lie, technically.

  Miles sputtered indignantly through his gag, drawing a sharp look from one of his captors.

  “Shut it,” the man growled.

  They shoved him into a damp warehouse, where the ringleader of the operation—a tall man with a scar down one side of his face—smirked at him. “So, this is the ‘lucky one’ everyone’s talking about.”

  Miles gave him his most unimpressed glare, which wasn’t very intimidating given his current predicament.

  “We’ll see how lucky you really are,” the man continued, pulling out a nasty-looking blade.

  The system chimed in helpfully.

  This would be an excellent time to pray for Hyperion’s intervention.

  “I’m already doing that!” Miles snapped internally.

  As if on cue, the warehouse door burst open, and Hyperion strode in like an avenging angel.

  “Let him go,” Hyperion said, his voice low and deadly.

  The captors exchanged uneasy glances, but the leader sneered. “And who are you supposed to be?”

  “Someone you don’t want to mess with,” Hyperion replied calmly.

  Miles rolled his eyes, even as relief flooded through him. “Took you long enough,” he muttered under his breath.

  Correction: Took him the exact amount of time required for a dramatic entrance. Be grateful.

  Hyperion made quick work of the group, his movements efficient and terrifyingly precise. Within minutes, the warehouse was silent, save for Miles’s muffled protests as he tried to wriggle free of his bindings.

  Hyperion knelt beside him, cutting the ropes with a flick of his dagger. “You okay?”

  “Define ‘okay,’” Miles grumbled. “Because I was doing until I got kidnapped for being too lucky.”

  Hyperion smirked. “Next time, stay in bed.”

  Miles groaned as the system chimed in smugly.

  You should listen to him. I’ve been saying that all night.

  Hyperion helped him to his feet, his expression softening slightly. “I’m serious, though. You need to be more careful. Rumors like this can get you killed.”

  Miles nodded, feeling uncharacteristically subdued. “Yeah. I’ll...I’ll work on that.”

  As they left the warehouse, Hyperion glanced down at him. “So...you still owe me dinner, right?”

  Miles couldn’t help but laugh. “Fine. But you’re paying for dessert.”

  Correction: You’re paying for everything. Hyperion’s the only reason you’re still alive.

  “Not helping!” Miles snapped, but for once, he didn’t really mind.

  The room was eerily quiet when Hyperion finally left. Miles lay on the rickety inn bed, exhaustion pulling at him like a weighted blanket. Hyperion had been on edge all evening, and it had rubbed off on him. But now, with the silence settling in, Miles let himself relax.

  "I guess it’s safe to sleep now," he mumbled, though his voice wavered slightly.

  Statistically, the odds of something catastrophic happening are only 27%. Acceptable risk.

  Miles groaned. “What about comforting me, system? Ever try that?”

  Comfort is not within my designated parameters.

  He turned over, muttering curses at the system until sleep claimed him.

  When Miles woke up, something felt...wrong. For one, the bed beneath him wasn’t the same creaky mess from the inn. Instead, it was cold, hard, and damp. A heavy smell of mildew and faint rot filled the air.

  “Oh, come on,” Miles groaned, his voice echoing slightly.

  He sat up and squinted in the dim light. Thick stone walls surrounded him, and heavy iron bars blocked the only visible exit.

  “System, where am I?” he asked, his voice shaky.

  Analyzing surroundings… Processing… Analysis incomplete. Use cannot use system interface at his current time and mental state. Please, try again later.

  “Great,” Miles muttered, his heart pounding. “I swear, if Hyperion left me with some psycho—”

  “Don’t bother,” a voice interrupted.

  Miles jumped, twisting toward the sound. A small figure was sitting cross-legged in the corner of the cell. It was a child—a girl who couldn’t have been older than seven. Her white hair gleamed faintly in the dim light, and her eyes were...well, they weren’t eyes. They were pools of pale gray, pupilless and unsettling.