The phone rang at seven in the morning, rattling against the laminate bedside table.
Fin fumbled for the plastic handset, pressing the speaker against his ear with a dry throat.
"Fin speaking," he rasped, staring at the peeling ceiling paper above his bed.
"Plant shift management," a mechanical voice droned over the line. "Due to yesterday’s outbreak event, lower sector operations are suspended. All packing personnel are placed on unpaid leave pending facility review."
"Understood," he replied calmly, staring at the cracks in the wall. "Thank you for the notice."
"Facility inspections will take three weeks," the voice continued without inflection. "Emergency severance payments aren’t authorized for hourly contractors."
He hung up the phone before the supervisor could offer the corporate version of an apology.
Unpaid leave meant zero wages on Friday, with rent due by five in the afternoon.
The landlord in District Four didn’t accept apologies or municipal disaster declarations.
He swung his legs over the mattress, walking into the narrow hallway in his socks.
A notice on the downstairs door announced school closures for two consecutive days.
Jolly sat at the small kitchen table, eating a slice of toast with strawberry jam.
She wore clean gray pajamas, her dark hair combed neatly behind her ears.
"You look terrible," she observed plainly, chewing her toast with measured deliberation.
"Thank you, I grew it myself," he answered, pulling out the chair opposite her.
She looked at his forearms resting on the tabletop, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses.
"Your arms are bigger," she stated, pointing her butter knife at his biceps. "You’re taller through the shoulders... since Tuesday."
He reached across the table, snatching the remaining corner of her toast and shoving it into his mouth.
"Eat your breakfast," he mumbled around the bread, buying four seconds to formulate an excuse.
"I counted everything last night," she continued, ignoring the stolen bread. "Third floor window... nine meters from the yard... no ladder truck parked anywhere in the yard."
"A response truck had an extension ladder," he tried to deflect, chewing quickly. "The fire department helped."
"The fire department arrived thirty minutes after we left," she countered, her voice calm and steady. "The glass shattered inward, but you arrived ahead of the shards. You landed before the dust settled."
He swallowed the dry crust, his explanation collapsing into silence before her audit.
"You promised to explain later," she said softly, resting her chin on her palm. "This counts as later whenever you’re ready... but when you do explain it, start from when you jumped."
A knock sounded at the front door before he could answer her challenge.
He opened the door, finding her blue backpack resting on the doormat outside.
A yellow salvage sweep receipt was taped across the zipper, marking the item as recovered municipal debris.
He carried the backpack inside, setting it beside her chair with a faint smile.
"Look who made it home," he said, tapping the cartoon monster keychain.
Jolly pulled the bag into her lap, tracing the dental floss stitches along the strap without speaking.
A golden pulse flared in the center of his vision, projecting a stream of notifications.
[ System ID paired: Fin / resonance null ]
[ Association registry synced. ]
[ Compensation enabled. ]
His name finally appeared in the municipal database, allowing the System to complete its link.
[ Host: Fin ]
[ Rank: E ]
[ EXP: 500 / 50,500 ]
He stared at the five-digit requirement, freezing with his hand hovering above the counter.
’Fifty thousand EXP,’ he thought, his brain locking on the impossible number. ’Fifty thousand... tfff...’
A standard E-rank orc yielded roughly nine experience points, eleven if the monster was fat.
Reaching D-rank would require slaughtering five thousand five hundred monsters with his bare hands.
The power ladder wasn’t a ladder at all, it was a cliff wearing a ladder costume.
A secondary menu expanded beneath the rank overview, listing the breakdown of progression sources.
[ EXP yield breakdown: ]
[ Monster kills: low ]
[ Gate clears: high ]
[ Named monsters: very high ]
[ Limit breaks: bonus ]
’Fights are pocket money,’ he realized, reading the breakdown twice. ’Doors are the real salary.’
Every wealthy hunter on television smelled of gate doorways because dungeons paid the true dividend.
A locked skill prompt flashed at the bottom of the interface, displaying a progress bar.
[ Skills: locked ]
[ Unlock condition: reach rank E+ or absorb 100 distinct traits ]
[ Current progress: 4/100 ]
He closed the interface with a blink, turning toward the small radio sitting on the refrigerator.
The morning news broadcast played over the static, reading the regional dungeon bulletin.
"The Association announces a new D-rank gate surfacing at the old waterfront freezing works," the announcer reported. "The standard thirty-day clearing window opens this coming Monday. Registered guilds are preparing initial bids."
"Due to district hazard levels, open applications for support personnel are permitted under licensed-party waivers," the announcer added. "Unregistered porters may apply at the eastern checkpoint."
He looked down at his rough palms, feeling the raw strength resting beneath his skin.
A porter carried supply crates for licensed parties, earning a daily wage while entering the gate legally.
More importantly, every gate clear distributed experience points to all registered members inside the barrier.
Five days remained before Monday, leaving him time to practice carrying crates without exposing his strength.
"The gate opens after rent day," he muttered, checking the dates again.
He called the landlord, trading his last emergency savings for an extension until Monday evening.
"One extension," the landlord warned. "Bring the balance before I lock the office."
It was a risky plan, built on desperate arithmetic and unpaid rent, but it was the only road forward.
He opened the pantry cupboard, counting the remaining packages of dried noodles on the bottom shelf.
Four packets remained in the cardboard box, enough to feed them through Thursday evening.
He picked up the kettle from the stove, filling the pot with fresh tap water.
"Hey, Jolly," he called over his shoulder, turning on the gas burner with a click. "How do you feel about noodles for lunch?"
She looked up from her recovered backpack, adjusting her glasses with a small nod.
"Only if you add the green onions," she replied, picking up her school notebook.
He chopped two scallions with the small kitchen knife, tossing the green rings into the bubbling water.
He stirred the broth with chopsticks, watching the noodles soften against the heat.
He cracked a fresh egg into each bowl, letting the whites poach in the salty onion broth.
He set two steaming bowls on the tabletop, sitting down across from his sister.
Jolly picked up her chopsticks, blowing on the hot broth before taking a slow, careful sip.
"The broth is good," she admitted quietly, a faint smile touching the corners of her mouth. "You’re getting better at cooking."
"That’s because I put love into the seasoning, kiddo," he joked, slurping his noodles with gusto.
"You put extra salt," she corrected dryly, tapping her bowl with her spoon.
He rinsed the empty bowls in the sink, wiping down the table with a clean cloth.
He checked his pocket calendar on the wall, circling next Monday in bright red marker.
He laughed, watching the steam rise toward the ceiling as the morning sun hit the floor.
Fifty thousand points still blocked the road ahead, demanding more risks than he could count. For now, breakfast stayed warm while his sister sat safely across the table.