I wake after only a few hours, slipping in and out of sleep throughout the night.

  With sunlight starting to filter through the cracked window, my head feels a bit clearer. I blink away the lingering fog of exhaustion and shift on the worn mattress, momentarily forgetting that I’m sharing it with a homeless catgirl.

  Blake.

  She’s beautiful.

  There’s a world of difference between seeing someone on a screen and having them right in front of you. Her presence is mesmerizing, her sharp edges softened by deep sleep. Relaxed, with her breathing even and her face calm, she looks delicate, serene. For a moment, I allow myself to simply take it in—to enjoy the quiet satisfaction of knowing I did the right thing for once.

  Then reality crashes back in.

  Blood.

  We’re both still covered in it—her clothes, the mattress, even my arms have faint smears dried into the skin. The entire scene reeks of the chaos we barely escaped. One thing’s certain: I’m not spending another night in this dump, this time for real.

  I glance at her injuries. Her wounds are fully closed now, the healing potion slowly having done its job hours ago. She fell into a deep, dreamless sleep soon after I patched her up, utterly spent. The steady rise and fall of her chest is reassuring, proof she’s fine for now.

  Letting her rest, I slip into the tiny bathroom to wash off the grime. The shower’s water pressure is terrible, and it takes too long to scrub away the stains from my hands and arms, but at least I’m no longer walking around looking like a butcher in a slasher film.

  Clean and marginally more human, I dress quickly and head out. There’s plenty to handle before I can think about relaxing.

  First, the stolen scroll. I sit down with it, going through the messages and files. It doesn’t reveal much—just confirmation of what I suspected. A small-time gang, hired to sow chaos in Vale for cash and weaponry. At first glance, the White Fang branding looks like a convenient smokescreen for their antics, but the more I dig, the more it seems their employer had one specific condition: the masks. Whoever was funding them wasn’t just interested in violence—they wanted the blame placed specifically on the Fang.

  Great. Another fire waiting to blow up.

  With that piece of intel stored away, I focus on our other issues: food, shelter, and clothes.

  Finding a decent hotel I can afford turns out easier than expected. Turns out I have more money to my name than I thought—not enough for anything fancy, but enough to put a roof over our heads for a couple of weeks without worrying too much. Food is even simpler: I grab something quick for breakfast and keep moving. We can sit down for a proper meal later. She’s a catgirl, there’s a port nearby—it won’t be hard to find something she likes.

  Then, there’s Blake’s clothes.

  Her outfit is trashed: bloodstained, shredded, not unwearable but certainly getting close to it. The place we’re staying at doesn’t have a laundry machine, and as funny as the image of her washing her only outfit in the sink might be, I doubt she’d share my sense of humor. Wearing those clothes again until she gets home, smelling like a murder scene, isn’t an option either—not unless we want to draw every thug and Huntsman-in-training within a mile radius.

  I sigh, browsing the racks of a discount store for something functional. It’s a weird feeling, shopping for someone else. I’ve spent so long fending for just myself that the concept of considering someone else’s preferences feels alien. Yet here I am, holding up a short black hoodie and wondering, Is this her style? Yeah… It has purple at the edges.

  I toss it into the basket. And a towel—because the one I used earlier has enough holes in it to qualify as a war veteran.

  And just like that, half the morning vanishes. By the time I make it back, the sun is high, and the small space I reluctantly call home feels even more disgustingly cramped. My bed’s empty. No sleeping catgirl.

  Instead, I hear the faint sound of running water from the shower.

  Relief washes over me before I even realize I was worried. She could’ve left—could’ve disappeared the moment she woke up. I wouldn’t have blamed her, honestly. She doesn’t know me, and trust isn’t exactly easy to come by in Vale these days. But she didn’t. She stayed.

  If she went away, I’d probably find her within a week in some dark alley, battered and bloody again—or worse. After all, the girl has some trouble walking away from danger.

  I knock lightly on the door, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the water. “Danger? You alive? I got you some clothes that don’t have shrapnel in them.”

  There’s a short pause before I hear her voice, startled. “Oh! Uh… yeah, I’m fine. Just… um…”

  “I’ll leave them here. Take your time, but don’t get too comfortable—we’ll get a real place with a better bathroom soon.”

  I set the clothes down, and after a moment, I can’t help but grin as I watch her hand slip out and fish around for them, keeping the door tightly shut. A few minutes later, she steps out, smoothing down the cropped hoodie and adjusting the high-waisted leggings. They suit her tall figure—casual but practical.

  “Thanks,” she says softly, eyes darting around the cramped room. She hesitates before speaking again. “Are you sure this is… okay?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I wave her off. “I’m not exactly scraping by anymore. Since I got here, I’ve been able to make some cash thanks to a few thugs in White Fang masks who needed help moving… well, cargo.”

  “Did you…?”

  “They very much killed each other.” I shrug it off casually.

  She stares for a beat, unreadable, her amber eyes narrowing with that familiar intensity. “And… you didn’t think twice about taking what was left? Just took everything and ran away?”

  I smirk. “As much as I love the humble Jacques Schnee, I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

  Her gaze flickers, just barely betraying a hint of amusement. “I suppose you could call it… fair play.” She catches herself, her expression cooling back to an indifferent mask.

  “Why don’t we go over the details over lunch?” I suggest. “Believe me, this is going to take a while.”

  ?

  “So you’re telling me…” Blake finally says, breaking her silence. She’s been focused on my story, but mostly just dissecting her piece of salmon with a feral focus. “You’re telling me the Schnee family is flooding the market with weapons? And blaming it on the White Fang?”

  I raise an eyebrow, pulling out [The Contender] and setting it on the table between us. “Why would a company that built its empire on cheap Faunus labor go after the group fighting for Faunus rights? Take a wild guess. This piece here is probably a high-end model, but I wouldn’t be shocked if Jacques Schnee has some stashed, discarded military cargo he’s unloading right here in Vale. Guns, explosives—everything fits.”

  Blake frowns, clearly skeptical. “But… why Vale?” she mutters, almost to herself. “That doesn’t make sense. There’d have to be someone here with connections to the Schnee family. Someone who wants the Faunus to be a target.”

  “Or maybe even the White Fang themselves,” I suggest, testing the idea. “If they want to sow fear towards themselves, this could do the trick. Humans turning on each other in panic—it’s the same effect as a small army rolling in, but without risking their own soldiers.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “No.” Her voice is firm now. “I… I was a member of the White Fang for most of my life. They’d never work with the Schnee, not even if it meant victory on a silver platter. That’s going too far, especially for them.”

  She’s right, of course.

  I sigh, leaning back a little. “Alright, Danger… I’ll admit, this is out of my depth. I’m no expert on Vale’s underworld.”

  She’s quiet for a long moment, eyes dropping to her clasped hands as she struggles with her own words. “I… can’t do this alone.” She looks up, amber eyes steady but carrying a hint of vulnerability, of impotence. “I know it isn’t your fight, and you have no reason to…” She trails off, then clenches her fist. “But… someone has to do something. We have to do something.”

  I can’t help but smile, leaning back and folding my arms. “We could always go to the authorities.”

  She just shakes her head. “Nobody would believe the White Fang isn’t behind this, not even if we managed to prove it. It’s been all over the news, they can’t just turn around and say they were wrong all this time.”

  I was just teasing, but this girl is actually pretty smart.

  “Fine,” I say as if I wasn’t going to accept from the very start. “But on one condition: if we’re doing this as a team, we’re a team. No more jumping into the middle of the fight. I need to know you’ve got my back too.”

  Her cheeks redden slightly, and she looks away. “I… understand.” Then there’s a quiet pause as she forces herself to meet my eyes. “And… thank you. For everything. I won’t let you down.”

  I grin, nodding. “Good. Now let’s go kick some teeth in.”

  ?

  After stopping by Blake’s “home” to gather her belongings, we began our investigation. Each night, we tracked down different gangs, anyone stupid enough to wear one of those masks was good enough for us. The goal was simple—swipe scrolls, look for leads, and see if any of their suppliers might make an appearance if we pretended to be interested on some extra work. Step by step, we wanted to climb up toward whoever was orchestrating the whole operation.

  None of the proxies ever came out in person, but the more we rattled the streets, the clearer the picture became. Piece by piece, the patterns started to repeat. Many of these thugs had been recruited by middlemen—freelancers known for getting their hands dirty or fixers who specialized in assembling throwaway teams for low-stakes, high-risk hits.

  After a while, a name began surfacing repeatedly. Reluctant as they were to talk, these low-level players kept hinting at one man—a figure notorious in Vale’s underworld for having a hand on every plate while staying away from it all.

  "A nightclub?" Blake asked, looking both skeptical and surprised.

  "Not your style?" I tease.

  At this point, she just rolls her eyes. "I just didn’t expect the guy terrorizing half the city to be hosting late-night parties on the side."

  "Maybe that’s why it works," I say, adjusting my tie. "Or maybe I just wanted an excuse for a night out without getting shot."

  "We didn’t have to get shot at last time…" Her lips curl just a little bit. "But someone really likes grabbing Lien here and there."

  "I didn’t hear you complaining about getting new clothes."

  And I couldn’t blame her. She had picked out a dark, fitted Chinese-style dress (Qipao) that highlighted her features, sober but undeniably elegant, half-covered by a design of silver flowers. For all her insistence on “only taking what’s necessary,” she’d adapted quickly to our semi-funded operation, mostly because all the money I took was from the very people trying to send Faunus back to the dark ages. Between the loot from our enemies and my daily quest rewards, we were getting by pretty comfortably. Worst case, I could open another dungeon, though I’d have to come up with an excuse to disappear for half a day at the very least, and I wanted to keep hold of my remaining bullets for as much as I could.

  Level: 9 (53%)

  [Current Objective] Reach level 10!

  My progress has slowed down a bit since beating random, untrained street thugs isn’t exactly prime XP. But honestly, I don’t mind. I’d rather spend the time with her before Beacon kicks off. The idea of a magical high school sounds really fun, sure, but once teams are assigned, I doubt we’ll get much downtime to know each other without others constantly jumping in the middle.

  And, well… sharing a room with three other people sounds like hell.

  “Hey.” Blake’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and I feel her hand rest lightly on my shoulder. I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at my reflection for a minute. “I’m not going to take myself out.”

  I shake off the daydream, smirking as I turn to face her. “Right. Let’s not keep Vale waiting.”

  ?

  Making out way into our enemy’s den is as easy as walking through the front door. Despite the pulse of soft music and hundreds of people swaying to its rhythm, there’s no mistaking the underlying tension. The flickering lights catch on faces both distracted and vigilant, and I quickly notice the overabundance of security: at least a few dozen men, restless as they pretend to be on their phones, each one casting sharp glances across the room, ready to jump at the first sign of trouble.

  The Shattered Glass is exactly what I expected—and somehow, even more. Now, all we need is a way to deal with its owner.

  I lean forward to whisper into Blake’s ear… And suffer a mild aneurism. I freeze, staring at her with wide eyes, then at her ears, then back at her, then at the bow she wears. My mind loops, again and again, struggling to process the image in front of me.

  Does… Does this thing have four ears? I’m… No wonder the system feels like shit, these gods are into some weird stuff.

  “Hey, Danger,” I mutter, trying to get my thoughts back on track. “Let’s look for a place to sit until things calm down.”

  Still reeling from the psychic whiplash of this cursed realization, I wrap an arm around her waist, absentmindedly guiding us toward one of the more isolated booths on the middle level. Only when she comes to a sudden stop do I snap back to reality. She gives me a defiant stare, the kind that’s half warning, half challenge. For a moment, the tension hangs between us, but then she matches my stride with a little grin, her mood shifting from offended to a little playful.

  Imagine having four ears and trying to act tough.

  “Did you find our guy?” she asks, her tone shifting to business.

  I settle into a seat, surveying the club and its chaos. “Over there.” I gesture at a man in a suit near the bar. “That’s got to be Junior.”

  “A bit old to be called Junior, don’t you think?” Her voice is so deadpan it nearly buries the humor. “We should probably make sure he’s the right one.”

  “Fair point. Got any bright ideas for a distraction?” I glance at the second level, where the Malachite sisters lounge, their presence as striking as it is dangerous. “See those two?” I nod toward them.

  “Friends of yours?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “Not quite. I just have a feeling they might be in the mood for trouble.” My plan isn’t much of a plan at all, but it is pretty simple: put on my White Fang mask, stir up some flirtatious banter—Melanie did seem entertained enough by me to let me live last time—and hope it sets something off.

  But before I can act, a new figure catches my eye: a girl with a wild mane of blonde hair, cutting a striking path across the dancefloor. My stomach tightens.

  “Oh god… hold yourself. I think our distraction just walked in,” I quickly warn.

  Blake snorts, assuming I’m joking. “Do all your distractions involve girls?” She’s teasing, but before I can reply, the club owner soars through the air, and the sudden eruption of gunfire silences her disbelief, twisting her expression into one of wide-eyed horror.

  “Should we…?” she starts, voice uneasy.

  “Nope.” I shake my head quickly. “Not our fight. Let’s move.”

  With the club in pandemonium, employees rushing toward the brawl and patrons stampeding for the exits, we slip into the chaos unnoticed. We weave through the confusion, slipping into the back of the building like ghosts. The storehouse we find is vast, aisles of boxes stretching in all directions like a labyrinth, packed with more than just club supplies.

  We scan the maze until we find Junior’s office. It’s little more than a makeshift cubicle wedged between crates of receipts and paperwork, but the computer on his desk is unlocked—and that’s all we need.

  Blake leans in, curious like a kitten. “You know how to work that?” she asks, watching as I slide into the chair and bring up the desktop. It’s laughably outdated, a relic that feels like a Windows 98 clone. Security doesn’t seem to be a priority here.

  “You don’t?” I counter, surprised.

  “We… don’t get much tech from Atlas where I’m from,” she admits.

  That makes sense. Technology in this world is a strange paradox: scarce and yet omnipresent. Atlas hoards advancements for itself, and only the most privileged, like the academies, benefit from it. By the look of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if most people have only ever used scrolls, since I know the internet isn’t even a thing here.

  “Here,” I announce, opening a string of emails between Junior and Miss Malachite.

  Blake peers over my shoulder. “What did you find?”

  “Looks like Junior was bankrolling the weapons.” I scroll through the details. “No wonder the twins are working for him. Their mother must’ve been furious after losing that last shipment.”

  “And the White Fang?” she presses.

  I dig deeper. “Payments, sure… but they’re coming straight from Atlas?” My voice cracks.

  “Then Jacques Schnee is behind this!”

  “No way,” I protest. “Jacques Schnee might be a bastard, but he doesn’t have the brains—or the guts—to start a civil war in another kingdom.”

  Or… does he?

  A painful sense of doubt brews in my gut. So many pieces are shifting in this world, and if the head of the Schnee family is more cunning and dangerous than I ever expected, then we might be facing a far greater threat than we’d ever imagined.

  “Let’s…” I take a second to pull at my own thoughts. “Let’s focus on Junior. How do we make sure he stays out of this without killing him?”

  “I…” Blake’s visage suddenly darkens. “I think I might have an idea.”

  ?

  As the chaos on the dance floor finally subsides, Junior limps back to his office, battered, bruised, and craving a glass of whiskey to drown the sting of his defeat. He stumbles through the door, but before he can so much as sigh, a fist collides with his jaw. The world tilts and fades to black.

  When he comes to the waking world, Junior finds himself tied to his office chair, panic shooting through his veins as two masked figures stand over him. The large man’s voice cracks as he screams, “Help! Heeeeeeeelp!”

  “Save your breath,” Blake says, stepping forward. Her blade gleams in the dim light as she presses it to his neck. “Everyone went home hours ago, Junior. Now the question is… will you be so lucky?”

  Junior’s breath turns ragged, eyes darting wildly. “Listen, I don’t want any trouble! This was just a job, okay? It wasn’t even my idea! That witch Malachite pulled me into this—she’s the one you want!” Desperation bleeds into his voice.

  Blake doesn’t flinch. She grabs a fistful of his hair and drives her knee into his gut, doubling him over. Her voice drops to a whisper, sending chills down my spine. “If humans knew what we want, we wouldn’t be here,” she says. “I could kill you tonight, but someone just like you would replace you by morning. So you better pray we don’t find more of those masks lying around, or I might take the risk and do business with the next human in line.”

  With a swift kick to his temple, Junior falls to the floor, unconscious once again. For a moment, I almost pity the guy. Blake, however, storms out of the office, her expression unreadable and her silence heavy.

  The walk back to the hotel is thick with unspoken tension, Blake’s personality slipping back into that distant, unreachable space. The progress we’ve made over the past week seems to evaporate, leaving her withdrawn, clutching herself as if trying to hold her own fractured pieces together. Her gaze is unfocused, fixed on something far away, something I can’t see.

  Once we’re back in our room, she heads straight for her bed. I can’t stand to see her like this, so I step forward and wrap my arms around her from behind, pulling her into a gentle embrace.

  Her reaction is immediate and raw—she tenses and twists, ready to strike. But she stops, her eyes meeting mine, wide and teary, her breath coming out in shaky bursts. “I’m…” she starts, her voice cracking. “I’m sorry…” Tears spill over, and at that moment, she just looks broken.

  “Shh…” I whisper, bringing her head to my shoulder. “It’s okay… It’s okay…”

  “No, it’s not!” she sobs, her fists pounding against my chest. “I’m not supposed to be like this! That’s why I left—I’m not…” Her voice breaks again, trailing off into anguish.

  Gently, I reach up and run my fingers through her hair, slowly undoing the bow that holds back her ears. As they spring free, she shrinks, as if wanting to hide. Vulnerability ripples through her, weakening her legs, and I can feel the pain in her heart.

  “We’re all a little broken,” I whisper.

  Blake shudders, her face contorted as she fights back sobs. Her hands instinctively move, almost as if she wants to grab the bow and hide her ears again, but I catch her gaze, and for the first time, she doesn’t look away. She never openly admitted to being a Faunus, but it’s always been there, a quiet truth hovering between us as neither chose to say something.

  “I don’t care,” I tell her, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “You’re not in the White Fang anymore. You’re not one of them. You’re just Blake… and I like Blake.”

  Tears stream down her face, and she buries herself against my chest, muffling her sobs as though she doesn’t want me to hear them. Smiling, I pick her up and carry her to the bed, lying down with the catgirl still wrapped in my arms. My fingers continue to weave through her dark hair, soothing. Her face turns pink, and she stubbornly looks down, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, her hands clutch at my back, clinging to me tightly.

  “You’re so dumb…” she whispers, her voice small and raw. “I’m… I’m not who you think I am. I’m not a good person.”

  “I know,” I reply, a small smile on my lips. “Neither am I.”