Of course, the old geezer had planned this from the beginning.
I slowly let my gaze sweep around the room, resentment and bitterness curdling in my stomach as I took in the reactions around me. The other guild masters were nodding along as though they’d just heard the most brilliant idea anyone had ever proposed. And the guy from Iron Fist, the same bastard who’d been shouting about how we couldn’t let monsters out of prison, was now glaring at me like I’d personally volunteered for the job just to spite him.
Hey, I didn’t volunteer for this.
I don’t want it either.
But I’d already been backed into a corner. No matter how much I hated it, there wasn’t really anything else I could do.
I had no choice but to nod.
"Excellent," the Association President said, stroking his chin with an air of smug finality. "From this moment, you will be given classified information on the S-rank Hunter criminals currently imprisoned domestically. Use your judgment to select suitable candidates and report back to me."
"...Understood."
"We only have a few months before the unsubjugated S-rank Gate at Port Harrow begins eroding the surrounding area. I trust you will do your utmost. And, of course, regarding compensation for your considerable efforts..." His smile deepened slightly. "Rest assured, I will negotiate with the government to ensure you are not disappointed."
So, a blank check.
What a great country.
I swallowed the curses threatening to spill out, bit down on what little pride I had left, and accepted the black binder he held out to me.
That seemed to settle everything.
The major guild masters who had gathered in the conference room immediately began filing out, their steps dignified but suspiciously hurried. Not a single one of them seemed interested in meeting my eyes.
Apparently, now that the problem had a new owner, there was no reason for them to stick around.
"Ahem. Well, I have another appointment."
The Association President was already halfway to the door without even bothering to look back.
"Once your selection is complete, inform my secretary immediately so we can proceed with the necessary arrangements."
...
Even him?
Was the Hunter industry in this country really going to be okay with leadership like this?
A bunch of cowards were more than happy to pass a ticking bomb to the nearest sucker, then walk away before it exploded.
"Damn it..."
The guy from Iron Fist was the last to leave. He even made a point of stomping across the polished floor as he walked out, as if he still had something to prove.
Then the conference room fell silent.
Only the relentless hum of the air conditioning remained.
I’d been completely played.
They’d dumped the hottest potato imaginable straight into my lap, and like an idiot, I’d caught it.
I slumped into the nearest leather chair, the black binder feeling far heavier than it should have as it rested across my knees. Then I rubbed a hand over my face and clutched my pounding head.
What the hell had I just gotten myself into?
◆ ◆ ◆
"...Still. Gotta do what I gotta do."
Sitting in the back of the taxi home, I discreetly opened the binder, keeping it low enough that the driver couldn’t get a clear look through the rearview mirror.
Inside were the profiles of five former S-rank Hunters currently rotting in domestic maximum-security prisons.
Mugshots. Crime summaries. Ability assessments.
The whole depressing package.
Five.
Considering how rare S-rank Hunters were, that wasn’t a small number.
The problem was that once I started removing the ones who were completely irredeemable, the psychopaths and lost causes who’d probably try to shank me the moment they got out, that number could easily drop straight to zero.
And I needed at least two.
Two S-ranks had already died trying to clear the Gate at Port Harrow. These five had been sitting in prison for who knew how long, so there was a good chance they’d grown weak and rusty as well. Even if I chose the most skilled among them, taking only one would be gambling with my life.
I needed at least two if I wanted any chance of pulling this off.
Might as well get the horror show started.
With a grimace, I turned to the first page.
Who knew? Maybe there was a diamond in the rough somewhere in here. A guy who’d made one stupid mistake in the heat of the moment. Something terrible, sure, but at least understandable enough that I could convince myself he was still usable.
I took a shallow breath and looked down.
[Tyler Hicks | Age 34 | Serial Rapist]
"Tsk."
I didn’t even bother reading the details.
The binder snapped shut in my hands as I turned to stare out the window at the city blurring past.
One down.
Four to go.
◆ ◆ ◆
"Hoooh..."
Hot water pounded against my back as I stood beneath the shower, and little by little, the chaos of the morning began to drain out of me along with the suds.
A few hours ago, I was just another Hunter with enough problems of my own.
Now?
I’d been shoved onto a tightrope stretched over a pit of spikes.
If I somehow managed to walk across it successfully, maybe I’d come out the other side without my name completely ruined. Maybe I’d even break even.
But if I slipped even once, it was over.
My career. My reputation.
Possibly my life.
"Birds of a feather, I guess..." I mumbled into the rising steam, letting out a bitter laugh.
I stared blankly at the fogged-up mirror and wiped away a clear patch with my palm.
A man with hollow, exhausted eyes stared back at me.
Honestly, I looked like a drowned rat.
A drowned rat suffocating under the weight of his own past while an impossible future was being dumped directly onto his shoulders.
"...Get a grip."
I stared at my reflection for another moment before telling it exactly what it deserved to hear.
Then I slapped my own cheek.
Hard.
The sharp sting immediately jolted me back to the present.
There was no time to stand here feeling sorry for myself.
I needed to select candidates, and I needed to do it fast.
After that came the real nightmare.
I’d have to socialize them again, shake the prison stupor out of their bodies, revive combat instincts that had probably been dead for years, and somehow force a bunch of violent, unstable egomaniacs to work together as a team.
And that was only the beginning.
The list of things that could go wrong was practically endless.
I finished my shower and stepped back into my modest studio apartment, the damp chill of the room brushing against my skin.
Everything was exactly where I’d left it.
The half-read book on the table.
The clean but worn couch.
The familiar silence.
Everything looked perfectly normal.
Except for one thing.
"...’Pick from among these.’ Some choice."
I walked over to the kitchen counter and picked up the offending document folder I’d thrown there earlier.
"A deadly five-question quiz where every answer is wrong."
With a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in my bones, I dropped onto the couch.
What did the Association even want from me?
Did those old fossils seriously expect me to somehow mind-control a group of hardened criminals into becoming model Hunters who followed orders and played nicely with others?
Or was this whole Convict Squad idea nothing more than political theater?
An extreme proposal they could parade in front of the public and government to prove they were "doing something," while quietly preparing a real solution in the background with their favored Guilds.
Knowing the Association, they probably already had a Plan B.
Hell, maybe they had a Plan C and D too.
And when my little squad inevitably failed and got everyone killed, I’d be the perfect scapegoat. The reckless maverick who’d insisted on using dangerous criminals despite everyone’s warnings.
"I don’t know if I should hope they’re all idiots, or hope they’re cunning bastards..."
I ran a hand through my damp hair and stared down at the folder.
But beneath all the frustration and confusion, one thing was becoming painfully clear.
If I wanted to survive this, I had to find at least two usable answers among the five profiles inside.
Not good people.
Not decent people.
Usable.
People I could work with. Tools that wouldn’t break in my hand, turn around, and slit my throat.
Because if I can get just two solid people, people capable of holding a line and following a basic order, then I can probably cover the rest with my ability.
I can drag them across the finish line myself.
That ability.
The one the old geezers at the Association liked to call "masterful control."
The one I never wanted to use again after... everything.
But the situation is what it is.
I’d use it if I had to, whether I liked it or not.
If the alternative was standing by while an entire city got wiped off the map, then I’d become the puppet master of the worst people in the country.
"...Might as well start with the first one again."
The resignation finally settles in as I open the folder.
"Can’t get any worse than a serial rapist, right?"
I let out a heavy breath and open the file to Tyler Hicks’s profile.
My eyes skim past the charges and move down to the ability summary.
A male Hunter capable of shaping and wielding lightning like arrows.
Great.
A powerful elemental ability with excellent precision.
Actually useful.
For a brief moment, a small part of me begins to wonder if I dismissed him too quickly.
Then I read the next line.
The behavioral summary.
And whatever remained of my brief professional optimism dies immediately.
If he took a liking to any female fan drawn to his fame, he would arrange a private meeting, assault her, or drug her drink and rape her.
...
A pervert with a god complex and a powerful gift.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
I close my eyes.
But instead of the words on the page, all I can see is the Gate at Port Harrow.
The long, dark road leading toward it.
And the profiles of monsters paving the way.