I got ready—though there wasn’t much to do. It felt like a mere continuation of the night before.
I strapped on a holster for my small-caliber handgun and threw on a wrinkled jacket.
As I slipped my arms through the sleeves, patting the fabric to smooth its shape, the faint scent of oil tickled my nose.
Well, a man’s wardrobe is what it is.
I didn't even feel like looking in the mirror. My line of work didn't require me to put on a performance for anyone. As long as the clothes were easy to move in and didn't get in the way of my aim, they were good enough.
On the table sat the remains of the hors d'oeuvres I’d brought back from Nocturne Veil last night. Chilled cheese, pickles, and some slightly soggy crackers. I wasn't particularly hungry, but my mouth felt lonely, so I tossed a snack in and started chewing.
…Hm. Not bad. Even when cold, high-end food maintained its dignity.
I finished the bite and washed it down with the dregs of some carbonated water. After gathering the empty containers and tossing them into the Dust Box, a small clatter echoed through the room before silence reclaimed the space.
When I opened the door and the exterior shutter, the sweltering, humid air unique to the Lower District clung to my skin. It was a mix of moisture, the tang of iron, and the lingering scent of old exhaust.
It was a world away from the Upper District—a smell that would make most people grimace. Yet, the moment I inhaled it, I found myself thinking, Ah, I’m home. I really had become a local of this city through and through.
The street was almost deserted. It was that strangely quiet window of time in the morning, just before the laborers swapped shifts. In the distance, the low hum of a generator thrummed like a heartbeat.
On my way to the garage, I spotted a Vending Machine that looked like it had been shoved into the wall. The exterior was encased in a heavy iron cage, and the display panel was covered in a web of scratches. Down here in the Lower District, if you didn't secure things like this, they’d be hauled away in a single night.
Since I hadn’t managed to grab a morning cup yet, I decided to see what was in stock. I peered through the gaps in the bars at the selection. My usual canned coffee was marked as sold out. In its place, a new product caught my eye with loud, garish lettering.
Forbidden Taste! Take Flight! Espresso
“What is wrong with their naming sense?” I muttered.
Despite the ridiculous name, I felt a strange pull toward it. In the end, I pressed the purchase button. I held my palm against the payment panel; a beep signaled the authentication, and the internal mechanism roared to life with a heavy clunk.
I fished the can out of the bin and examined it. Gold lettering on a black background, featuring the face of some random old man as a logo.
…Even the packaging was unhinged.
I rolled it between my fingers with a wry smile, and the pull-tab gave way with a sharp click. The aroma was intense, though an artificial sweetness pricked at my nose.
Can in hand, I made my way to the garage.
I slid the door open to find my beloved car, the Road Stella Rouge, sitting in the shadows as if last night’s firefight had been nothing but a fever dream. Its polished crimson body dully reflected the dim garage lights; it looked like a sleeping beast watching me with narrowed eyes.
Even without a word spoken, I felt like the engine was simply waiting for the signal to wake up.
“Morning. Sorry for working you so hard yesterday.”
I took a sip of the coffee. The bitterness and chemical sweetness burned my throat.
Well, I didn't quite understand the flavor, but it certainly tasted like it could make someone "take flight."
Chuckling, I gave the car’s hood a light pat.
The engine let out a low growl, sending vibrations through my feet and into the pit of my stomach. This heavy bass was more soothing to me than any other sound. It felt as if the noise of the car could crush all the static of the city.
“Right. First stop, Cordeaux’s place.”
I tapped the steering wheel with one hand as I spoke to myself. I’d gone on foot yesterday, but today was different. I’d likely be running all over the place before the sun went down.
Besides—there was a certain "item" I needed to verify.
I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket and pulled out a Memory Chip that shimmered with a metallic luster. As I turned it over in my palm, the Holo-engraving on its surface caught the light.
It was the chip Sebastian had handed me. The "extra" reward that was separate from my fee.
Now then, let's see what kind of treasures you’re hiding.
I slotted the chip into the Interface Slot next to the driver's seat. The Holo-unit on the dashboard activated instantly, projecting a pale blue light panel into the air.
This car was built to be completely standalone. It was immune to external access and remote hacking. Even if the data on the chip tried to make the car go haywire, I could just use my Repair skill and call it a day.
After a few seconds of loading, a short electronic beep sounded, and a voice began to play from the depths of the hologram.
“…If you are listening to this, it implies that the prospects for my daughter’s treatment are firmly in sight.”
It was a low, resonant voice—the kind of weight you never forgot once you heard it. Gordon Rainburg.
“As I mentioned during our meeting, the request for my daughter’s treatment came from Lucia. As her father, I have no intention of interfering with her wishes. However, that alone does not satisfy me. It may be an unwelcome favor, but I have compiled a list of the corporations, individuals, and organizations currently monitoring or targeting you. As this reflects the current situation, the accuracy may fluctuate over time, but at the very least—the data is currently indisputable.”
The resonance of that heavy voice lingered in the car, making the air feel thick.
Monitoring me, huh? I figured as much, but I never had a full grasp of the scale.
Then again, the fact that he had this information meant the Rainburgs had been digging into me too. I didn't mind, though. In a city like this, if rumors started spreading that you could "fix anything," people weren't going to just ignore you.
Still, having a comprehensive list was a godsend.
The holo-panel was packed with data on conglomerates, military-industrial firms, politicians, mafias, and even the Police Organization. More than a few names were familiar—Cordeaux’s organization was listed there as a matter of course.
I gripped the wheel with one hand while using the other to scroll through the data. Outside the window, the scenery of the Lower District blurred past. The flicker of muddy neon and the holographic road signs reflected off the windshield, bathing the interior in a dim, shifting light.
One name in particular stood out.
—Vira Corp.
And listed beneath it, a specific individual.
Olaf Karvel… Director of the Second Technical Bureau.
I flicked the name with my fingertip. The display expanded, revealing a headshot along with a home address, department details, communication logs, and even a list of facilities he frequented.
The level of detail was staggering. It was as if Gordon was telling me, Go ahead and hunt him whenever you like.
“Gordon-san… you’re a piece of work, aren’t you?”
The corners of my mouth curled into a smirk. As if in response to my mood, the Road Stella’s engine let out a low, predatory growl.
I floored the accelerator, and the car lunged forward, slicing through the city streets. A trail of red afterglow was swallowed by the urban chaos as I disappeared into the morning.