I returned to my apartment as evening draped Lungmen, the city's faint hum drifting through the walls.
In my hands, I carry a pizza box, its warmth pressing against the cardboard, and a small assortment of soda cans clinking softly.
I ease the door open with my shoulder, step inside, and set everything down on the table—a sturdy wooden piece marked by faint scratches from past evenings.
The air feels a touch stale, but the savoury scent of pizza—cheese and spiced meat—cuts through it nicely.
I slip off my coat, laying it over a chair where it settles in a casual heap.
My tie comes next—I loosen it with a quick tug and drape it over the rack by the door, watching it catch the lamplight for a moment.
I unbutton my shirt, trading it for a simple undershirt, and swap my trousers for a pair of charcoal-grey lounge pants, their hems slightly worn from use.
It's a comfortable shift, a way to shake off the day and settle in.
With that done, I lift the pizza box lid, revealing a steaming spread of dough topped with pepperoni and molten mozzarella, the edges nicely crisped.
I take two slices for myself and grab a soda can; its chill is a pleasant contrast in my grip.
I sink into the sofa—it creaks a bit under me, familiar and worn—and switch on the TV.
The screen flickers to life, filling the room with a soft glow and the low drone of Lungmen curfew updates.
So far, this new life's been going alright. Hectic at times, no doubt, but decent enough.
Still, I find myself wondering.
What am I really doing here?
Solving cases keeps me busy, sure, but I'm drifting, lacking a purpose I can point to and call my own.
I've settled into being Howard Leyman in this world, fitting the role well enough.
But along the way, I've veered from what I used to stand for.
In the name of justice, I killed those I deemed unfit for society; in the pursuit of fairness, I worked with the hands of evil; and in denying my own merit, I relied on talents.
I've gotten too comfortable, relying on the job more to run away.
Meeting Arknights characters has been a thrill, getting to chat with Kal'tsit was a highlight but I still haven't pinned down a real goal for myself.
What do I want? I think, letting my mind wander.
To save Terra, turn this broken world around?
That doesn't feel right.
That's the doctor's path, not mine.
I'm not some larger-than-life figure with the power to fix it all.
This place is too far gone, and I'm not bold enough to think I could pull it off.
I raise a hand toward the ceiling, fingers spread against the dim light, feeling a familiar unease creep in.
It's the same restless itch I had back in my old life, grinding away at that black company.
I hated it then, and I'm not loving it now.
I close my hand into a fist, a small grin tugging at my lips.
I won't just be the perfect detective, nor will I aim to be this world's saviour or its executioner. I'll simply be me—Howard Leyman, living as I see fit.
What if Terra was a game turned real? Doesn't matter.
I am here to have fun, push myself beyond my limits, and perhaps find a partner to share the ride with while living my dream of a fulfilling life.
That's why I wanted this fresh start: to live it fully, on my terms.
I take a bite of pizza, the flavours grounding me, and lean back into the sofa.
***
Time had slipped by as Howard finished his meal, the empty pizza box and a lone soda can resting on the table like quiet remnants of the evening.
He lingered on the sofa, the cushions creaking faintly beneath him, when a memory surfaced—Exusiai had delivered a gift some days prior, one he'd set aside amid the rush of recent events.
Curiosity stirred him, and he rose to retrieve it from the corner shelf, a simple wooden nook near the window.
There it sat a tidy little box wrapped in plain paper, tied with a slender red ribbon. He brushed off a thin layer of dust and opened it with care.
Inside, nestled on a pad of black velvet, lay a card—sleek and glossy, bearing a golden penguin logo.
A note tumbled out, scrawled in Exusiai's easygoing script:
"VIP pass from Penguin Logistics don't spend it all at once, yeah?"
He flipped the card over, spotting the details: 50 million LMD, exclusive perks. A small smile tugged at his lips.
He hadn't expected something so rare—seems his ties with those Sankta couriers ran deeper than he'd figured.
He checked his watch—just past nine, still early for Lungmen's nightlife.
A restless itch nudged him, so he decided to head out.
No bar tonight, though—he had a different plan in mind.
The streets buzzed as Howard stepped into the flicker of neon lights and chattering crowds, his boots tapping a steady rhythm on the pavement.
He'd grown tired of the old Howard's wardrobe—those stiff coats and trousers that never quite fit his style.
Tonight, he'd change that. He wove through the throng toward a boutique he'd noticed before—a sharp little shop squeezed between a noodle stall and a tech stand, its window showcasing neat overcoats and tailored fits.
Inside, the air was cool, carrying a hint of leather and fabric starch. Racks lined the walls, brimming with options, and he took his time looking them over.
He settled on a long overcoat—charcoal with a soft shine, double-breasted, clean-cut but not flashy.
The collar stood tall enough to block Lungmen's chill, and the grey lining promised warmth.
He slipped it on, feeling it settle nicely over his shoulders, the hem grazing his calves—just right.
Then he picked out trousers—slim-cut, deep slate, with a subtle texture that caught the light.
They had a crisp look but moved easily, a big step up from the rigid stuff he was done with.
The clerk—a wiry Feline with quick hands—rang it all up, eyeing the Penguin Logistics card with a raised brow.
"Nice haul tonight," he said, but Howard just gave a shrug and handed it over.
The purchase went through without a hitch, barely scratching the 50 million LMD.
He walked out with a paper bag swinging in his grip, the new coat already on, the old one tucked inside.
The night air hit different now—fresher, lighter, like he'd left more than clothes behind.
He headed back to his apartment, a bit of bounce in his step, ready to drop the bag and call it a night.
But as he turned the corner, his breath hitched—smoke coiled into the sky, thick and grey, lit by a harsh orange glare.
The apartment building was ablaze.
Howard Leyman dashed forward, abandoning his newly purchased coat and bag on the pavement as he shoved through the swelling crowd.
Shouts and screams pierced the air, onlookers gaping as he plunged into the burning building without hesitation.
I can't lose everything—not now, he thought, the urgency drowning out the chaos around him.
Flames licked the walls, smoke clawing at his lungs, but he pressed on, driven to reach his apartment.
Yet before he could ascend further, a sharp instinct flared within him—something's off.
A rocket streaked toward his face, a blazing projectile slicing through the haze. What the hell—?
His mind raced as he ducked swiftly, crouching low to let it pass, but the blast erupted behind him with a thunderous boom.
The force hurled him forward, heat scorching his back, and he crashed out of the building, tumbling amidst splintered debris.
His bones cracked on impact, his body twisting into a mangled heap of flesh and pain—yet his pulse surged, adrenaline raging through him faster than the fire above.
Sprawled on the ground, he wrestled with the confusion swirling in his head.
What just happened? Who's targeting me?
The questions pounded as he coughed against the acrid smoke, his senses reeling.
But the threat hadn't relented. The rocket's source wasn't alone—thirty vehicles roared into view, sleek cars cutting through the panicked crowd, their engines growling with menace.
They've tracked me down.
This isn't random, he realised, a cold knot forming in his gut. They'd found him.
Howard staggered to his feet, pain
shooting through his battered frame, and broke into a run. No time to play dead—gotta move.
His eyes darted to a nearby car—a weathered sedan parked askew by the kerb.
With no hesitation, he drove his elbow into the driver's window, shattering it in a spray of glass.
Hope this works.
he thought, brushing shards aside as he climbed in.
He thrust his hand over the keyhole, a faint pulse of Originium energy sparking from his touch.
He slammed the pedal down, tyres squealing as the car jolted forward, weaving into Lungmen's chaotic streets.
Behind him, the pursuing cars spread out, their headlights glaring like hunters' eyes in the dark.
Thirty of them? Overkill much?
he mused bitterly, gripping the wheel tighter.
Fuck
He muttered a curse under his breath, the only sound amid the roar of the chase.
And so it began.