Hyperion stood in the middle of the bustling market square, the sharpness of his gaze cutting through the crowd like a blade. The townspeople were clearly unnerved by his presence, whispering anxiously amongst themselves as they scurried away. Despite his calm demeanor, there was an unmistakable weight to his presence that sent shivers down their spines.

  He stopped a young vendor carrying a basket of fruit. “I’m looking for a certain underground auction. You wouldn’t happen to know where it’s held, would you?”

  The vendor froze, his grip on the basket tightening as if it were a lifeline. “I-I’m not sure what you mean, sir,” he stammered, eyes darting to the ground.

  Hyperion’s lips curled into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I think you do. So I’ll ask again—where is ?”

  The vendor shook his head frantically, his words tumbling over each other. “I swear, I don’t know! Please, I don’t want any trouble!”

  Hyperion leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “If you don’t tell me what I need to know, there will be trouble. For this entire square.” He glanced meaningfully at the bustling market stalls around them.

  The vendor’s face drained of color. “There’s a rumor… near the old brewery on the east side of town,” he blurted out. “That’s all I’ve heard, I promise!”

  Without another word, Hyperion turned and strode away, leaving the vendor trembling in his wake.

  As he approached the dilapidated building on the east side of town, Hyperion’s eyes swept over the scene. The old brewery was exactly what he’d expected: crumbling stone walls, boarded-up windows, and an air of neglect that screamed .

  He paused a moment to consider his options. Charging through the front door would draw too much attention, but a subtler approach might let him assess the situation before making his move.

  Leaping lightly onto the roof, he crouched by a loose tile and carefully pried it open. The scene inside made his blood boil: rows of cages filled with creatures and beings of various kinds, some humanoid, others distinctly not. The air was thick with the scent of damp straw and desperation, punctuated by the sharp voices of the auction workers.

  Hyperion’s gaze flicked from one end of the room to the other, quickly taking stock of the guards, exits, and the layout. This was the place.

  “Hold on,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. “I’ll find you.”

  He slipped the tile back into place and retreated to the edge of the roof, his mind working through the possibilities. His search had brought him here, but the real challenge was just beginning.

  Anyone who tried to stop him was about to have a very bad day.

  Hyperion stood atop the crumbling brewery roof, staring down into the shadowy depths of the illegal auction house he had uncovered. It wasn't the first time he'd tracked such operations, but there was something about this particular setup that felt . The air carried a weight of secrecy and malevolence that went beyond the usual criminal dealings.

  “This reeks of something bigger,” he muttered, his sharp gaze fixed on the bustling activity below. Guards patrolled with an unusual level of discipline for black-market thugs, their movements precise and their demeanor cold.

  He closed his eyes briefly, focusing on the snippets of conversation he had picked up during his search. The rumors of the auction’s existence had been buried deep, only revealed under threat of his destruction. One phrase, however, had stood out like a red flag:

  At first, it hadn’t meant much. Hyperion had assumed it was a term for some rare artifact or creature. But then the description had grown suspiciously familiar—someone not quite fitting into this world, someone whose very presence seemed to warp probability itself.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Hyperion said aloud, realization dawning like a punch to the gut. “Him?”

  It had started as a straightforward mission: investigate the illegal smuggling of dungeon loot and beast parts. He’d had no idea that the second objective—a strange, dice-rolling enigma of a person—would cross paths with the first so directly.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised,” Hyperion muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. “If anyone were to stumble into a mess like this, it’d be ”

  Hyperion descended from the roof and slipped into the shadows, blending seamlessly with the darkened alleyways surrounding the building. He knew better than to storm the place immediately. First, he needed confirmation. If the auction house truly had taken the kid, it would change his approach entirely.

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  He trailed a pair of guards who were gossiping as they passed. Their words were quiet, but not quiet enough for Hyperion’s keen ears.

  “Did you see the new batch? Some real strange ones this time.”

  “Strange isn’t the half of it,” the other guard replied, shuddering. “That one they’re calling the ‘lucky guy’? Gives me the creeps. Talkin’ to himself in his cell, laughing like he’s lost it. Ain’t natural, I tell ya.”

  Hyperion froze, a chill running down his spine. That description left no room for doubt.

  “Where’s he being held?” the first guard asked, his tone curious.

  “Top-level holding. Amelia herself gave orders to keep him isolated. Don’t know why, but she seems to think he’s special.”

  “Special, huh? If he’s as lucky as they say, maybe she’s hoping to cash in on that herself.”

  Hyperion clenched his fists, forcing himself to stay calm. At least now he had a clear target.

  Moving quickly, Hyperion navigated his way around the perimeter of the building, observing the structure’s weak points and noting the placement of guards. He paused in a narrow alcove, leaning against the wall as he pieced together his thoughts.

  “This wasn’t supposed to be personal,” he muttered under his breath. “One job: shut down the auction, expose the operation. Now, I’ve got to deal with rescuing a walking chaos magnet on top of everything else.”

  His mind flashed back to the last few days spent with the kid. The endless dice rolls, the relentless bad luck, and yet, somehow, the uncanny ability to come out alive. Hyperion couldn’t decide if the kid was the luckiest or unluckiest person he’d ever met.

  “Still,” he mused, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, “he does have a way of growing on you.”

  A loud crash from inside the building snapped him out of his thoughts. It was followed by muffled shouting and the sound of something—or someone—being dragged.

  Hyperion’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t have time to waste.

  Miles trudged through the endless corridors of the auction house, his footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence. “Seriously, this place is like a labyrinth designed by someone with a grudge against logic. How does anyone even here?”

  "Perhaps they have a map. Something you decidedly lack."

  Miles groaned. “Oh, thanks. Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll just pull a map out of thin air next time I get kidnapped and dumped into a smuggler’s lair.”

  "Your sarcasm is noted. And ineffective."

  Miles stopped mid-step, scowling at nothing in particular. “You’re not helping, you know. I’ve been wandering for hours. DAYS, probably!”

  "It’s been twenty-seven minutes since you left the last room."

  “Okay, fine! Feels like days,” Miles muttered, throwing up his hands. “This place is designed to drive people insane. It’s endless corridors and doors that lead to more doors. I’m starting to think it’s not even real.”

  "Your existential crisis is premature. This is very real, as is your current failure to navigate it."

  Miles rolled his eyes and resumed walking, turning down yet another identical corridor. “I’m going to end up as a skeleton in here, aren’t I? Just another nameless pile of bones.”

  "On the bright side, you’d have company. Plenty of skeletons in these kinds of places."

  “Oh, sure, because the legacy I want,” Miles shot back, waving his hands. “‘Here lies Miles, defeated by poor interior design.’ Inspiring.”

  The system went quiet, and Miles sighed. As much as he pretended to hate it, the silence was unsettling.

  “Hey, don’t go all silent treatment on me now,” Miles said, spinning around as if the system might physically appear. “You’re my only companion in this nightmare!”

  "Your sentiment is appreciated, though unnecessary."

  “Just saying,” Miles muttered. “…You’re better than nothing.”

  "As are you, statistically speaking."

  Several wrong turns and a growing sense of déjà vu later, Miles stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes widened as he found himself standing in front of the familiar, iron-barred cage he’d escaped earlier.

  “No. Nope. This is not happening.” He stared at the cage like it had personally betrayed him. “HOW?”

  "It appears you’ve successfully navigated in a complete circle."

  “I that,” Miles snapped, pacing in front of the cage. “What I know is how! This place doesn’t even have windows, and I still managed to get lost. It’s like it’s mocking me.”

  "Mocking implies intent. This maze simply reflects your… talents."

  Miles glared at nothing in particular. “I , if you had a face—”

  He stopped mid-threat as a deep rumbling noise echoed around him. The walls began to shift, sliding inward with a grinding sound that made his teeth ache.

  “Oh, come on!” He whirled around, watching as every possible exit sealed itself off. “Wasn’t it bad enough that I got lost? Now I’m stuck in here?”

  "Correction: you’re trapped."

  “Yeah, thanks for clarifying!” Miles snapped, his voice tinged with panic. “This is fine. Everything’s fine. I’m just stuck in a shrinking room with no way out. Totally normal day.”

  "If it’s any comfort, the walls appear to have stopped moving."

  Miles leaned against one of the now-closed walls, his heart racing. “Sure, that’s comforting. I’ll just sit here and wait for my captors to come back and toss me into another cage. Great plan.”

  "You could use this time to strategize. Or reflect on your choices."

  “Reflect on my—seriously?!” Miles smacked his forehead. “The only choice I regret is ever trusting you to help me get out of this mess.”

  "Noted. However, I would remind you that you’ve escaped worse situations before."

  “Barely!” Miles retorted, though he couldn’t stop a small, grim smile from forming. “And only because of dumb luck.”

  "Luck, when paired with determination, is a formidable tool."

  “Now you’re just trying to butter me up,” Miles said, sinking to the floor. “But thanks, I guess.”

  The system went quiet again, and Miles let out a heavy sigh. “Okay, think, Miles. How do you get out of a room with no doors?”

  "Pro tip: screaming is ineffective but cathartic."

  “Noted,” Miles muttered, rubbing his temples. “Okay, system, any brilliant ideas, or am I officially doomed?”

  "Technically, neither. This predicament is solvable, though your odds remain… modest."

  “Well, that’s encouraging.” He flopped onto the ground, staring up at the ceiling. “Guess I’d better start brainstorming.”

  "Brainstorm quickly. Time may not be on your side."

  “Yeah, no pressure or anything,” Miles mumbled, already searching the room for anything remotely useful. “No pressure at all.”