“I have to admit, that imported liquor last night was damn good.”
“Yeah, worth every ducat. That flavor was something else.”
While the two men chatted, a soft, hesitant voice came from beside them.
“Um… excuse me.”
The two bleach-blond punks turned around.
Freya stood there looking uneasy, as though she wanted to speak but could not quite work up the courage.
At least, that was how the two men interpreted it.
Freya had not been an actress in her previous life, nor did she have any talent for pretending. She had merely lowered her voice a little.
Her delicate appearance and naturally gentle voice did the rest.
One of the punks gave a low whistle.
“Well, look who it is. Little Freya. What can we do for you?”
“I… need money rather urgently.”
Freya kept her voice quiet.
“Could you take me to see Scar? He told me before that I could come to him if I ever needed a loan.”
Scar was their boss and the leader of a small neighborhood gang.
The two men paused in surprise. Then their mouths slowly curled into matching grins.
“Of course. Come with us. Never thought business would walk right up to us this early in the morning.”
One of them stepped closer and tried to sling an arm around her shoulders.
Freya quietly moved back a step, avoiding him without making a scene.
The man did not take offense. He simply assumed she was shy.
He could not touch her now, but there would probably be plenty of chances later.
The two punks led Freya to a narrow three-story building.
Inside, she finally met Scar.
The nickname suited him.
A long scar ran diagonally across his face, beginning above his left eyebrow and ending near the right corner of his mouth.
He often boasted about how he had earned it in a desperate fight against some infamous killer. According to his version of events, the other man had nearly split his face open before Scar fought back and killed him.
Freya had no idea whether any of that was true.
Scar lounged on a couch with one ankle resting on the opposite knee and a cigarette hanging from his lips.
He studied the girl sitting across from him.
“Freya? Every other time I offered you money, you turned me down without a second thought. What made you change your mind?”
Freya sat with her knees pressed together and her head lowered.
A few strands of hair fell across her face, hiding most of her expression.
“I… I didn’t have much of a choice. I really need the money.”
As if to support her story, her stomach growled loudly.
Freya stiffened.
She had left in such a hurry that she had forgotten to eat breakfast.
Unexpected as it was, the sound only made her claim more believable.
Scar chuckled.
“All right. How much do you want?”
Freya thought for a moment.
“A hundred thousand?”
She had originally considered asking for a million.
Even if Scar had that much money, there was no chance he would lend it to her. A teenage student suddenly asking for a fortune would be suspicious beyond belief.
A hundred thousand was already pushing it.
Even Scar looked surprised.
“That much?”
Freya shrank back slightly.
“Is that too much? Then I can…”
Scar waved her off.
“I can afford it. But think carefully. A loan that large comes with a heavy interest rate. Are you sure you can repay it?”
“I… I’ll find a way.”
Scar only smiled.
He gestured to his men.
The two bleach-blond punks soon returned with a heavy bag of cash and a contract, placing both in front of Freya.
She skimmed the document.
The interest rate was forty percent.
It was outrageous, but she had never intended to repay the money in the first place.
Freya picked up the pen and signed her name without hesitation.
“Is that all?”
Scar lifted his chin in silent confirmation.
Freya grabbed the heavy satchel full of money, rose from the couch, and quickly left the building.
Once she was gone, Scar looked at the two punks.
“Follow her. She never even considered taking a loan before, and now she suddenly wants a hundred thousand. Something isn’t right.”
He took the cigarette from his mouth.
“Keep your eyes on her. Don’t let her leave the city.”
Scar had dealt with borrowers who took out a large loan and tried to disappear before.
None of them had gotten far.
None of them had ended well.
Scar leaned back and muttered to himself.
“You always seemed like a smart girl, Freya. Let’s hope you aren’t about to do something stupid.”
Freya had no idea what conclusions Scar had drawn.
Even if she had known, she would not have cared.
She had the money now.
That was all that mattered.
She returned to her apartment and dropped the satchel onto the table with a heavy thud.
When she pulled open the zipper, bundles of banknotes filled the entire bag.
Freya took out one stack for her immediate expenses, then hid the rest beneath her bed.
Her next stop was the nearest clothing store.
There, she bought a long black coat that covered almost her entire body.
The city was dangerous after dark. A small, pretty girl wandering around alone would be an easy target for anyone looking to rob or abduct someone.
Wrapped in the coat, she might look suspicious.
That was still better than looking defenseless.
She also bought a pair of goggles and a cloth face covering to conceal her features.
Once she had prepared her disguise, Freya began scouting the area where the black market was rumored to be.
During her search, she noticed the same two bleach-blond punks following her.
She was confused at first, but soon understood.
“They think I’m going to skip town without paying.”
She had no intention of doing that.
Their presence was not entirely unwelcome either.
Scar expected his money back. If anyone tried to harm her before then, the two gang members might step in to protect their boss’s investment.
In a strange way, they had become her bodyguards.
By evening, a small figure wrapped from head to toe emerged from a narrow alley.
The information Freya’s classmate had given her turned out to be accurate. She had found the black market during the day, then returned home to rest until nightfall.
Once the time was right, she brought the remaining money and made her way back on foot.
Freya had imagined the black market as a street lined with masked merchants.
Each seller would have a makeshift stall covered in illegal goods unavailable anywhere else.
She quickly realized that image came from the dungeon-market districts in the fantasy novels she used to read.
The real black market was far less dramatic.
It was simply a decaying, nearly deserted street.
Some of the buildings were abandoned. Others were occupied by merchants who sold their goods inside.
Freya wandered through several of them.
She saw narcotics, forged identity papers, guns, ammunition, and plenty of other illegal merchandise.
After exploring for a while, she understood how the market worked.
No single person controlled it.
There was no organizer or crime lord overseeing every transaction.
It was closer to an informal market district.
Perhaps one or two merchants had originally chosen this forgotten street to conduct illegal business. As word spread among smugglers and criminals, more sellers moved in.
Over time, the street itself became known as the black market.
Freya entered a weapons shop near the middle of the district.
A stubble-covered man sat behind the counter, cleaning a double-barreled shotgun.
When the door opened, he glanced up briefly before returning to his work.
“Tell me what you want. Everything I have is on display.”
The wall behind him was covered in weapons.
There were pistols, rifles, shotguns, and several round metal objects that looked suspiciously like grenades.
Freya stepped closer and quickly found what she wanted.
Without speaking, she pointed to a revolver hanging behind the shopkeeper.
Rifles and shotguns were too large to carry discreetly.
A handgun could be hidden beneath her coat or slipped into a pocket.
The man glanced over his shoulder.
“Latest model from Lorenzo Arms. Fifty thousand ducats.”
Freya dropped the satchel onto the counter with a solid thump and nodded.
The shopkeeper gave her a curious look but asked no questions.
He removed the revolver from the wall, placed it on the counter, and slid it toward her before beginning to count the money.
Freya picked up the weapon with a gloved hand and examined it carefully.
It was the first time in either of her lives that she had held a real gun.
She could not deny the small thrill she felt. It was like receiving a fascinating new toy, though one capable of putting a hole through someone.
The revolver’s mechanism was not complicated.
Freya soon understood the basic controls.
When she swung open the cylinder, however, she found every chamber empty.
She looked up at the shopkeeper.
He had finished counting the money and apparently found the amount satisfactory.
The man reached beneath the counter, produced two small boxes, and pushed them toward her.
“The money’s good. I’ll include two boxes of ammunition. Extra boxes are two thousand each.”
Freya considered the offer, then raised two fingers.
She placed another four thousand ducats on the counter.
The shopkeeper handed her two more boxes.
As Freya prepared to leave, he spoke again.
“That revolver has a strong kick. Hold it with both hands, keep your grip steady, and don’t pull the trigger until you’re ready.”
He paused.
“And kid, you should stay away from places like this. They’re dangerous.”
Freya froze.
She had not spoken a single word since entering the shop because she did not want to reveal anything about herself.
Her voice was too soft and distinctive.
Even if she tried speaking in a lower or higher pitch, she doubted she could hide it properly.
Perhaps she simply lacked the skill to disguise her voice.
Either way, after careful consideration, she had decided that pretending to be mute was the safest option.
Yet the shopkeeper had still recognized her as a young girl.
How?
The man gave a quiet laugh.
“You covered yourself well, but I can still tell from your build and the way you carry yourself. You’re too small.”
He gestured toward her coat.
“There’s also the smell. Most people who come through here carry the sour stink of someone who hasn’t bathed in a week. You don’t smell like anything.”
His eyes moved over her disguise.
“And those clothes are too new. You bought them today, didn’t you?”
Freya had no response.
The man waved a hand dismissively.
“Relax. I don’t care why you need a gun. That’s none of my business.”
He returned to cleaning the shotgun.
“Forget I said anything.”
Freya remained silent and quickly left the shop.
She had believed her preparations were thorough.
Clearly, they had not been enough.
She was fortunate the shopkeeper seemed reasonably decent. Someone less honest might have decided that she looked easy to rob and taken both her money and her life.
She would learn from the mistake.
If she ever needed to do something similar again, she would prepare more carefully.
Freya took the shortest route home.
Even so, the journey lasted more than an hour, and the round trip left her exhausted.
Just as she approached her apartment, she noticed someone standing behind the building.
The figure wore black and stood perfectly still, as rigid as a tree.
He was staring up at her window.
Freya narrowed her eyes.
There was no way that man was here for an innocent reason.
Ever since the system had warned her about a fatal crisis in three days, Freya had wondered what kind of danger it would be.
Would it be an accident or a deliberate attack?
An accident might mean being struck by a carriage, falling from somewhere high, or drowning.
A deliberate attack could mean kidnapping or murder.
The man behind her apartment now looked like a likely suspect.
For all she knew, this might be his first night watching her.
Or perhaps he had been hiding there for days.
Freya was not the original owner of this body, but the thought of some obsessed stranger secretly watching her every night still sent a chill down her spine.
She lowered her gaze and checked the revolver, making sure it was ready to fire.
Then she walked straight toward the stranger.
Tap. Tap.
Her footsteps sounded unnaturally clear on the deserted street.
The kerosene lamps along the road stretched her shadow far behind her.
The sound caught the watcher’s attention.
He slowly turned his head.
A pair of strange red eyes fixed on Freya.
His pupils were narrow and vertical, like those of a wild animal.