Chapter 381: Please do not read its for my other book

The elevator in the Resource Bureau spat him out onto the ground floor and the first thing James did was duck into the single-occupant bathroom off the lobby. Ko. It bent a little as he gripped it in one hand. He’d expected a wire transfer or an official check. But the woman from Legal had made him sign three different forms in triplicate and then handed him an envelope like he’d won a radio contest.

There was no one in the hall. No security, no press, not even the usual crop of guild leeches scanning the crowd for easy marks. The Bureau had walked him out under a privacy clause so strong the receptionist didn’t even register his exit. He stuffed the envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket, zipped it shut, and kept his hand there all the way home.

His boots made wet sucking noises in the stairwell up to the flat. Second floor, end of the hall, same door with the handle that stuck if you pulled too hard. He turned the key, shouldered the door, and slipped inside. He listened for voices but the flat was silent except for the wall heater’s half-dead rattle.

James paused by the door. He exhaled. His hand was still tight around the envelope. He walked to his bedroom, shut the door behind him, and sat cross-legged on the faded duvet. It was the only place in the flat where the floor didn’t groan if you put weight on the wrong spot.

He set the envelope on the bed and stared at it. The last time he’d seen this much money was when his father’s insurance paid out. His uncles took everything except what his mother stashed in a savings account she never used, because it hurt to look at the balance. That had been a year’s worth of rent, and it had vanished in twelve months.

James took out his penknife and slid it under the flap. Inside were ten neat bands of bills, each labeled $10,000 in sharp blue marker. The bank’s security tape was still unbroken. He ran a thumb along the top note and then stopped, feeling something old and chemical in his chest. He put nine bands back into the envelope, resealed it, and slid it into his backpack, which still stank faintly of blood from the last Floor run. The tenth band—$10,000—he set aside. He counted out five thousand and wrapped it in a plastic sandwich bag before hiding the rest.

The loose floorboard in the corner was easier to pry up than he remembered. Last time he’d hidden the circlet there, it had barely fit between the joists. Now, the empty space under the board felt more like a crypt, and he had to force himself to stack the cash inside. He pressed the wood back down and spent two minutes rolling the threadbare rug perfectly smooth.

He sat there, breathing the damp mildew stink of the flat, feeling a phantom weight in his gut. Nothing had changed except everything. The world was the same, the rent unpaid, the water stains growing on the ceiling, but now there was a fortune in the floor and the only thing James could think about was what to do next.

He waited until after six, when his mother’s shift at the cleaning company was supposed to end. He waited until he heard her key in the lock and then he made tea, not because he wanted any but because she would ask if he’d eaten and tea was something to do with his hands.

She came in with her head down, eyes fixed on her phone. She only looked up when she smelled the kettle boiling. "You’re home," she said, surprise in her voice, as if she’d half-expected him to vanish again.

"Finished early," James lied, pouring water into two mugs. "They said I should rest between clears."

She nodded, not really listening. She put her bag down on the chipped kitchen table and started rubbing her temples. Her knuckles were red and raw. There was a new cut on the back of her hand, already scabbed over. She saw him looking and snorted. "Caught it on a bin lid. Got a Tetanus booster from the nurse, so don’t bother fussing."

James shrugged. He set a mug in front of her and watched the steam rise between them. The envelope was still in his pocket, and it made the whole conversation feel like a lie.

He waited until she’d taken a sip, then pulled the sandwich bag of cash from his jacket and set it on the table. The bag slid across the laminate, stopping just at her wrist.

She stared at it. She didn’t touch it. Her face blanked out in a way he’d only seen once before, at his father’s funeral.

"What’s that, James."

"Tower contract," he said, keeping his eyes on the mug. "They pay on commission now, not by the hour. If you clear a Floor, they pay you. This is... an advance."

She stared at the money another three seconds, then looked at his face. "Advance for what. You’re not a guild member."

James forced himself to meet her eyes. "I’m sub-contracted to the Resource Bureau. They needed something from me for a project. I signed an NDA so I can’t say more. But it’s clean, legal money. First payment, more to come. I thought we should fix the heat, or pay off the rent—"

His mother didn’t blink. She didn’t even seem to breathe. After a long time she reached out, picked up the bag, and peeled back the plastic. She counted three bills, then put the whole bundle back down.

"I want to see the contract," she said. Her voice was careful, the words spaced out like tiles.

James had expected this. He’d prepared the partial contract summary the TRB gave him, the one that just said "Resource Management Consulting" and listed a rate and duration. He reached into his pocket, unfolded the paper, and slid it across the table. She picked it up and read every word.

She set the contract down and rubbed her temples again. "And this is for what, exactly? What did you do for them that’s worth this much?"

James hesitated. The lie tasted sour in his mouth. "I found an item on Floor 1 they needed. I gave it to them, and they’re paying for access. That’s all." He almost said more, about the circlet, about O’Shea, but the words knotted in his throat. "It’s just an artifact, Mam. I’m not in trouble."

She studied him, her eyes shining in the harsh kitchen light. The look was different from her usual suspicion. More naked, more frightened.

"Are you sure?" she asked, quiet. "Because that’s enough money to disappear someone. I’ve seen what the Tower does to people, and I’m not talking about the fighting."

He wanted to say he was still her son, that nothing had changed. But that was another lie, and the taste of it mixed with the metallic reek of the flat. "I’m not running," he said, softer. "I just want to make things better."

She picked up the bag and set it back in front of him, keeping only a single bill. "I’ll use this for groceries and to pay the landlord a week early. The rest you keep." Her hand covered his for a second, cold and dry.

She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she looked ten years older. "Promise me you’re not doing something you can’t take back, James."

He thought about the floorboard, the hidden envelope, the deal with O’Shea, the thing he’d already done in the woods on Floor 1. He thought about the way it felt to watch Hyun-Woo go down and not even flinch, about standing in a room with men who could buy and sell entire city blocks, about how easy it was to hide things from the people who loved you.

He thought about the next Floor, and the one after that, and the person he would be when he got there.

"I promise," he said.

His mother pressed her lips together. She looked at him, really looked, and the silence stretched between them until James thought it would never end.

"I don’t recognize you anymore," she whispered. Then she stood up, poured her tea into the sink, and left the room.

James sat at the table, his hands wrapped around the mug, the sandwich bag of money sitting untouched in front of him. The flat smelled of damp and old onions, the mildew on the windowsill, and something else that was neither clean nor unclean—just different, a new thing that had never belonged here.

He finished his tea in silence. Then he went to his room, lay down on the bed, and stared at the water stains on the ceiling. He listened to his mother move around the flat, the way she turned off lights as if they couldn’t afford the bill. He closed his eyes and counted seconds until the sounds stopped.

He drifted in and out of sleep, dreaming of the Tower, of bones rising from the dirt, of a city smothered under grey fog. He dreamed of his mother’s voice, calling to him from behind a locked door.

He woke up before dawn, the flat colder than usual, the world outside silent as death. He checked the floorboard to make sure the money was still there. Then he showered, dressed, and sat by the window until the city started to wake up.

He put the rest of the bills in his backpack and zipped it shut.

He didn’t know if he’d come back the same next time.

He caught the tram across the river, then a local shuttle to the north side, where the mid-tier Challenger district stacked up against the old industrial flats like a row of titanium teeth. The new apartments had numbers instead of names—Unit 18, Block 3, Northgate. Each block came with its own set of security checkpoints and an automated concierge system. Nobody asked who you were, only if your credentials matched the database.

James toured five units before he settled on the one facing away from the street, third floor, with a balcony and a reinforced entry door. The place was smaller than he’d expected for the price, but it had an actual bathroom with a tub, a kitchen with working appliances, and a bed that didn’t creak when you moved.

The agent was a woman with perfect hair and a voice like a phone operator, cheerful in a way that only made sense if you’d never been poor. She showed him the biometric locks, the privacy glass, the soundproofing panels. He said "good," "fine," or "yeah" in response to each feature. When she got to the section about emergency services and secure package drop, he nodded and gave her his Challenger ID.

She slid his card through a scanner. The screen blinked when it read NECROMANCER (LEGENDARY), but her face didn’t change. She handed it back and said, "That will be first and last month’s rent up front, plus a five hundred credit deposit for damages."

James paid six months in advance, then took the key and waited for her to leave before opening the door. The lock buzzed and disengaged with a soft hiss.

Inside, the flat was perfectly sterile. The air didn’t smell like anything. He opened the sliding closet and set his backpack inside, then unzipped it and counted the bands of cash just to be sure. He ran his thumb over the ten-thousand-dollar bundles and let himself feel nothing for exactly three seconds. Then he put the cash at the back, under a pair of jeans, and shut the door.

He checked the corners of the flat for cameras, finding none, then tested the privacy glass by darkening every window. The city view snapped off like a monitor. He walked the perimeter twice, checking for weaknesses, then set up a second hiding spot under the bathroom sink for the ring and any gear he didn’t want seen.

He unpacked the rest of his things—a spare shirt, the charger for his laptop, a notebook with three pages of actual notes and the rest torn out. He left the phone plugged in on the counter and let the new address buzz through his bones.

Next: gear.

The Challenger shop was two blocks down, between a ramen place and a vape bar. Unlike the ones back home, this shop kept its windows opaque and its security on a ten-second response timer. When he walked in, a girl in body armor the color of old paper gave him a silent nod and then ignored him.

The man behind the counter wore a mechanic’s coverall and had a barcode tattooed down his forearm. He didn’t look up from his tablet until James dropped his old iron sword and wooden shield on the counter.

"Floor 1 special, huh?" the man said, eyeing the wear on the blade. "Looking to upgrade or just offload?"

"Upgrade. Need a one-handed sword, C-rank or better, nothing flashy. Shield, too, but lighter than this. And armor. Not cloth."

The man set the tablet down. "Class?" 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

James handed over his ID again.

The man scanned it, and his eyes tracked the screen for a long second. "Legendary Necromancer," he read. "You’re the kid with the wolf stack, right? Saw the after-action report on Tower Tactics."

James said nothing.

The man grinned, sharp and dry. "Relax. I don’t sell out my clients. You want something that channels necrotic energy. Good. You ever use obsidian?"

James shook his head.