Texas curled her knees to her chest.
The cramped rental bathroom barely accommodated the tub, but the steaming water offered a rare, enveloping security.
Her eyelids drooped, heavy with exhaustion.
A wrapped sword leaned against the porcelain edge, positioned perfectly for a quick draw.
The blade might be chipped, but in her hands, it remained a lethal instrument.
She stepped out, toweling off her hair and tail.
The fresh clothes carried a sharp, artificial chemical scent.
Her Lupo nose twitched in distaste.
Still, she swallowed the complaint.
It was a luxury compared to her blood-soaked flight from Columbia and the endless, freezing nights in the wasteland.
Frez sat in the living room surrounded by a mountain of snacks.
Mostly sweets.
“I like sugar, but nothing cloying,” he offered, holding out a box of chocolate biscuit sticks.
Texas waved the box away.
She dug into the pockets of her discarded, ruined coat and produced a crumpled cigarette.
Looted off a wasteland scavenger.
Cheap tobacco, far from her usual brand.
“Want one?”
“Never smoked.
My lungs would probably hurt.”
“That’s just your lungs growing muscle.” A rare sliver of humor escaped her lips.
The hot bath had melted away her icy guard.
She stared at the crumpled stick, then tossed the entire pack into the trash bin.
“Never mind.
I’ll quit.”
A clean break from the past.
She accepted the chocolate stick, placing it between her lips.
Her hand drifted instinctively toward her pocket for a lighter before her fingers brushed empty air.
She shook her head, a self-deprecating sigh escaping her nose.
The chocolate tasted decent enough.
She pinched the stick between her index and middle fingers, tapping it lightly as if flicking ash.
“Are there any decent jobs in Lungmen?”
“Not around here.
This is the Lower City.
Most just call it the slums.
It spits out the Infected and the poor, leaving nothing but gangs and scavengers.
I’m just playing undercover for now, ratting out local syndicates for bounty money.
I’ll be moving out soon enough.”
“Moving out?
Surviving in the slums by snitching required either a death wish or serious combat skills.
“Not really.
I just want to leave Lungmen and see the world.” He popped another snack into his mouth.
“Maybe I’ll come back in triumph one day.”
“Good luck with that.
I’ll probably just settle down here.” She needed a quiet life until her past caught up.
The slums were a dead end, and the local gangs were too pathetic for a former Siracusan mafia heiress to entertain.
“Right, time to earn your keep,” Frez prompted.
Texas picked up the broom.
Her movements were stiff, unpracticed.
She might have grown up surrounded by violence, but she was still a Demoiselle.
Servants usually handled the sweeping.
“Sweep, then mop.
I’ll handle my own laundry.
Just change the bedsheets and pillowcases, and we’re square for the night.”
“Understood.” She harbored no resentment.
He provided food, shelter, and funds.
Repay kindness, avenge wrongs.
The absolute rule of her life.
She finished the chores, a strange sense of domestic accomplishment washing over her.
Frez was still on the couch, sunglasses firmly on, watching a martial arts flick featuring a black-and-white Ursus executing flawless Yan kung fu.
Texas watched the screen for a while, genuinely impressed by the choreography, before a yawn forced her eyes shut.
She bid him goodnight and retreated to the bedroom.
The mattress was unfamiliar, the room pitch black.
Outside, the muffled television blended with distant sirens and street-level shouting.
Yet, she slept.
Deeply.
In the wilderness, sleep was a luxury bought with one eye open.
In the city, sleep usually brought the nightmares.
The burning family estate.
Her father’s corpse.
The suffocating scent of blood.
The terrifying shadow of the Wolf Lord.
Tonight, there was only quiet.
A sharp knocking shattered the silence the next morning.
Texas threw on her new coat and stepped into the living room.
Frez was gone.
His jacket lay draped over the sofa.
Did he forget his keys?
She gripped her sword, cracking the door open just an inch.
Standing in the hallway was a Liberi.
Or something close to it.
Wearing a gold chain, sunglasses, and exuding pure hip-hop swagger.
“You are?
Emperor?” She didn’t listen to rap, but the Columbian music scene was impossible to ignore.
Her family’s foot soldiers used to blast his tracks.
“Little girl, I’ve been looking for you for a long time.” The sunglasses slid down his beak, revealing sharp, calculating eyes.
“I’m setting up a logistics company in Lungmen.
Need reliable muscle.
You interested?”
She moved to shut the door, but a flipper jammed into the frame.
“Don’t be so hasty.
I see potential in you.
We can negotiate the benefits.”
“Not interested.
Leave, or I stop being polite.”
He let out a rhythmic, quacking laugh.
“Not polite?
What are you gonna do, kill me?
Draw that sword and stab me right now!
I dare you!” As an immortal Beast Lord, death was a joke.
He played Russian roulette for fun.
“Cleaning up your corpse would be too much of a hassle.”
Footsteps echoed on the stairs.
Frez appeared, carrying a plastic bag of steaming breakfast buns.
“What are you two doing?”
The penguin spun around.
“You’re the punk who snatched the girl I was scouting?
Hiss…
are you an Aegir?
You don’t smell like one.”
“I’m human.
Can’t you see that, you oversized penguin?”
“Holy crap, a human?!” Emperor dropped to the floor, sliding across the linoleum to grab Frez’s hand with both flippers, shaking it violently.
“Please, you must join my team.”
[Akarin’s Note:
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