- Kyle Valtier’s POV -

Her hair was black—jet black—short and messy like a crow’s nest that had never known a comb or warm water.

It fluttered randomly over her forehead, which was smeared with mud.

As for her eyes... my God, those eyes.

They were black, very wide, staring directly into my face from below.

Despite the tears filling them, and despite the pain making her body tremble... they were not the eyes of a child.

They carried not a single trace of childish innocence, nor even a flicker of the panicked fear of novice thieves who cry when caught red-handed and beg for mercy.

After her first scream, she did not cry out loud.

She did not continue sobbing or plead for mercy, nor did she even try to pull her hand free from my grip, because she instinctively understood that any movement would result in her entire arm being broken.

She bit down hard on her lower lip, almost drawing blood, struggling desperately—impressively—to swallow her pain, trying her hardest to appear brave in front of the nightmare that had seized her.

She didn’t blink.

She stood there, in the wet sludge, staring at me with rigid steadiness, with a strange coldness, and a boldness that didn’t suit a creature that barely reached my waist.

As if she were the one holding me, not the other way around.

Our gazes met. Me—the nightmare of Elysium who betrayed Alpha Squad and escaped the regional kings—and her, a filthy street child from the bottom of Zirathion.

The silence stretched for two seconds.

I waited for her to break, or to wet herself in fear like grown men do in front of me.

But she surprised me with a move that made my eyebrow rise in complete astonishment.

She raised her other free hand, the one she had been hiding inside her torn coat pocket, and with all the coldness of this artificial world, pointed her small finger—covered in scratches from old wounds—toward a worn-out wooden stall beside us.

The stall displayed cheap mechanical toys and used electronic figurines running on rusted gears.

The girl spoke.

And her tone was not that of a shaky child; it was serious, firm, desperately trying to hide the trembling of her vocal cords, and commanding in a surreal way that provoked both laughter and irritation.

"Buy... buy me that toy,"

she said without any preamble, pointing at an ugly one-eyed mechanical monkey.

I blinked twice. Did I hear that correctly? A thief caught red-handed, her wrist nearly crushed, demanding that I buy her a gift?

"Excuse me?" I said, my voice laced with dangerous mockery, tightening my grip a millimeter on her frail wrist as a warning, to see if she would break.

"Little mouse, you do realize I can shatter your arm with a snap of my fingers, don’t you?"

She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second from a flash of pain, but she didn’t blink after that.

She didn’t look at her trapped arm.

Instead, she continued staring into my eyes through my tinted glasses, and spoke again in her small voice—but terrifyingly logical for her age:

"You’re strange. And you’re not from this neighborhood," she said, her eyes sweeping briefly over my coat before returning to my face.

"Your clothes are too clean, without any patches, and your shoes don’t have a single speck of mud despite this sludge. You’re rich—and arrogant."

She paused for a second to take a shaky breath, then dropped her bomb:

"If you don’t buy it for me now, and let go of my hand... I’ll scream at the top of my lungs and claim you’re trying to kidnap me. You’re a rich stranger, and I’m a girl from the neighborhood. Then... the local boys, factory workers, and the scum of this market will gather. You may be strong, but they’re dozens—hundreds. They’ll beat you badly, tear your beautiful coat, and strip everything from your pockets before Zirathion’s police arrive—who won’t believe you anyway. The toy costs a few digital credits. Your coat costs thousands."

She fell silent, leaving her threat hanging in the cold air, her chin raised in defiance despite the frozen tears in her eyes.

I stood there, frozen.

My mind—the one that toyed with Saint Ilarious and surpassed Valisera’s extraordinary intelligence—was analyzing what had just happened. 𝓯𝙧𝓮𝓮𝒘𝓮𝙗𝙣𝒐𝒗𝒆𝓵.𝓬𝓸𝒎

Her threat was childish in form, but in substance it was built on a precise, tactical, and perfect analysis of the unforgiving environment of lower Zirathion that shows no mercy to outsiders—especially the wealthy.

She hadn’t read my aura, nor analyzed my aetheric energy like other monsters, nor realized that I could annihilate this entire street in three seconds without dirtying my hands.

Instead, she used the oldest and most effective weapon street children possess:

Scandal, drawing attention, and exploiting the anger of the starving, oppressed class against the velvet class.

I looked at her small face, flushed with both fear and boldness.

I sighed in annoyance and completely loosened my grip, releasing her wrist.

Her wrist bore a dark red mark in the shape of my fingers, but she immediately pulled it back and hid it behind her back.

"Fine... fine. You win, you extortionist little mouse," I muttered with a sideways smirk.

I slipped my hand into my pocket and pulled out a magnetic digital payment chip.

I passed the chip over the vendor’s old, worn-out payment device and transferred an amount equal to a hundred times the price of the cheap plastic toy.

The man nearly fainted from the number that appeared on his cracked screen.

"Keep the change, and give her the miserable monkey before she changes her mind and asks me to buy the whole market," I said irritably.

The vendor handed the toy to the girl, his hands trembling violently.

The girl snatched the toy with the agility of a small monkey and immediately stuffed it—professionally—into her oversized torn coat pocket so it wouldn’t be stolen from her.

I expected to see a smile, a flash of joy, or at least a sigh of relief at escaping injury.

But she didn’t say a single word of thanks.

She didn’t even smile.

She merely gave me one last look of contempt—a victor’s gaze that scorned bourgeois stupidity—then...

Spat!

She spat on the wet ground near my clean shoe, in a gesture of pure defiance and disdain, and immediately turned to run.

She ran at insane speed, disappearing among the waves of passersby, slipping between the legs of workers like a small ghost swallowed by the dark alleys of Zirathion within seconds.

I stood watching the spot where she had spat, then looked at the crowd and chuckled softly.

"In the end... even radiant Zirathion has its alleys, its filth, and its little demons."

I continued my stroll through the market with a strange sense of ease.

I bought several trivial things I didn’t need—technological tools, genetically modified fruits, and some aged wine—then quickly returned to the skyscraper.

When I entered my luxurious suite, everything was quiet.

"Activate absolute protocol and spacetime isolation," I ordered the AI, closing the penthouse door behind me.

I finally closed my eyes as I stood in the middle of the lavish hall.

The hideout was secure, fortified with endless layers of isolation enchantments and security systems that had cost me a fortune.

Neither Kaiser, nor Elysium, nor the past could reach me here.

I took off my coat and threw myself onto the massive circular bed covered in spider silk.

I sank into the covers and surrendered to a very deep sleep.

But... in the world of the waking, sleep is not always a path to rest.

Sometimes, it is a terrifying stage for cosmic messages.