The ceiling above him was stained with old water marks.
A cracked fan creaked lazily overhead, rotating just slowly enough to be irritating.
Somewhere beyond the thin walls, a couple argued loud enough for the entire building to hear, while plumbing groaned like it was fighting for its life.
Dylan opened one eye.
“…Morning already?”
He remained lying on the narrow bed for several seconds before letting out a long sigh.
His entire body ached.
His shoulders.
His legs.
His ribs.
Even his hands still felt sore from spending three hours wrestling that ridiculous locker underground.
He slowly pushed himself upright.
“…my back hurts the most.”
The cheap mattress protested with a loud squeak as he sat on the edge of the bed.
The room itself wasn’t much to look at.
One bed.
One tiny bathroom that looked like a warzone.
A crooked bedside table.
A flickering fluorescent light that looked like it had given up on life years ago.
A faded sign hanging beside the door read:
CHECK-OUT: 10:00 A.M.
He scratched his messy hair.
“…Luxury.”
Last night, by the time he’d returned from Pittsburg, every affordable hotel in New California had already been fully booked.
The ones that weren’t already booked were far beyond what he could afford, given his current financial situation.
Exhausted beyond reason he’d rented the first room he could find.
For one night.
It had cost him…
$1,300.
“…Robbery.”
He muttered the word with genuine bitterness.
“They didn’t rent me a room.”
“They rented me depression personification.”
With a tired groan, he reached for his phone resting beside the bed.
The banking application loaded.
He already knew what he was going to see.
That didn’t make it hurt any less.
Current Balance
$152.80
Silence.
“…”
He stared at the screen.
“…That’s…”
Another pause.
“…Actually fucked up.”
“I’ve somehow reached the point where buying lunch feels like a financial decision.”
He rubbed his temples.
“I am catastrophically broke.”
The corner of his vision suddenly shimmered.
A familiar translucent blue window unfolded before him.
Not a new notification.
The same one that had appeared shortly after he’d returned to New California last night.
[System Directive]
The Host has deviated from the original narrative.
Integrate yourself into the Main Storyline.
Failure to maintain meaningful participation may result in corrective intervention.
The Story must continue.
Dylan quietly reread the message.
Then…
A smirk appeared.
“…As expected.”
He dismissed the window with a flick of his finger.
“So the mysterious god who kidnapped me into my own novel finally decided to leave instructions.”
He leaned back against the wall.
“I get dragged into another world…”
He counted on his fingers.
“By an unknown god.”
“Given a mysterious System.”
“And now I’m being told to integrate myself into the plot.”
He nodded thoughtfully.
“…That’s so painfully cliché.”
He let out a weary sigh.
“I really hope whoever’s responsible has better writing skills than I did at fifteen.”
Silence returned.
His gaze drifted toward the ceiling.
“The Story must continue…”
He repeated the sentence quietly.
“So that’s the condition.”
It confirmed one suspicion.
Whoever had dragged him here hadn’t done it randomly.
They wanted the story completed.
Which meant what he initially suspected, break the plot and integrate himself into the main plot.
“…Fine.”
He shrugged.
“I was planning to do that anyway.”
His eyes drifted toward his backpack resting beside the bed.
A faint grin slowly spread across his face.
He opened one of the hidden compartments before carefully pulling out a waterproof sachet.
Inside…
Several Moonveil Herbs rested quietly beneath layers of protective cloth, their translucent leaves glowing softly even in the dim hotel room.
For several long seconds…
Dylan simply stared at them.
Then…
He began laughing.
“Heh…”
The laughter grew louder.
“Hahahahaha…”
Before long he was sitting alone in the tiny room, holding the herbs while laughing like a complete lunatic.
“If only those Bureau inspectors knew…”
He lifted one herb toward the flickering light.
“…I’m carrying enough contraband to make several officers spontaneously develop stress disorders.”
His grin widened.
Another second passed.
Then he blinked.
“…Right.”
The laughter stopped almost instantly.
He slowly lowered the herbs.
“…That was weird.”
He cleared his throat with all the dignity he could still muster.
“Moving on.”
He carefully wrapped the Moonveil Herbs once more before returning them to the backpack.
“I need money.”
“And fortunately…”
He zipped the compartment shut.
“…illegal economics exists.”
As the name suggested, the Black Market wasn’t a single location.
It was an enormous underground trading network spanning almost every major nation on Earth.
Anything that governments restricted…
Anything the Bureau confiscated…
Anything too dangerous, too rare or simply too inconvenient to sell legally…
Eventually found its way there.
Transactions could be carried out anonymously through an encrypted online marketplace.
Or…
For those who preferred face-to-face business…
Physical branches operated in countless cities across the world.
Naturally…
New California had one.
It would have been stranger if it didn’t.
Unlike ordinary shops, however, every branch answered to a Handler.
Someone responsible for verifying merchandise, arranging buyers and ensuring neither side attempted to murder the other before the transaction was complete.
New California’s Handler happened to be someone Dylan remembered surprisingly well.
Elijah Winston.
Better known throughout the underground simply as Handler Crow.
Years ago, Crow had served as a Marine officer before eventually retiring from military service.
Somehow…
He’d found himself working for the Black Market instead.
Not because he enjoyed crime.
But because someone with military discipline proved remarkably effective at keeping criminals from behaving like idiots.
“…I remember writing him.”
Dylan rested his chin against his hand.
“He only appeared a handful of times.”
A minor supporting character that he created for convenience of the protagonist.
he was reliable, professional and refreshingly honest by Black Market standards.
If Dylan wanted to sell Moonveil Herbs without immediately getting arrested.
Crow was probably the safest broker in the entire city.
He slipped Rain comfortably against his waist before slinging the backpack over one shoulder.
His bank account contained exactly $152.80.
His stomach was empty.
His rent had expired.
And somewhere across New California…
A retired Marine was about to meet the author of his own universe.
The thought alone made him happy—Elijah might not have been a major character, but he’d been Dylan’s favorite in the early part of the story.
“…Let’s go make some very legal financial decisions.”
With that, Dylan unlocked the hotel room door and stepped back into the noisy streets of New California.