Fin trudged through the Hunter Guild lobby, with his stomach begging for food.
"Shut up, you," he muttered to his belly, patting it like it'd listen. The fancy lights overhead buzzed softly, and the air still smelled like flowers—too clean, too rich. He felt like a smudge on a shiny mirror, sticking out worse than a slime in a soup bowl.
"Fin Carver!" a sharp voice cut through the hum of the lobby.
He froze mid-step, nearly tripping over his own feet. Turning, he saw her—the interviewer lady with the tight bun and glasses that could cut glass. She stood by her desk, arms crossed, looking at him like he'd just tracked mud on her perfect floor. Which, okay, he might've.
"Uh… yeah?" he said, shuffling over. His heart did a little flip—did he mess up already? Was she kicking him out?
She didn't smile, just adjusted her glasses and stared him down. "I'm Mara. Official registrar for the Hunter Guild. You're an F-rank now, so listen up. You need to be here tomorrow, 8 a.m. sharp. Not 8:01, not 8:05—eight. Got it?"
He nodded fast, like a bobblehead on a bumpy road. "Yeah, 8 a.m. Got it."
"Good." She reached under her desk and pulled out a book—thick, worn, with a faded cover that said 'Hunter Basics: Don't Die Edition'. She slid it across to him, along with a small, shiny card. "This is your temporary license. The book's got everything you need to know—ranks, monsters, rules. Read it. Memorize it. Don't show up tomorrow acting like a clueless slum rat again."
He grabbed the book and card, his fingers brushing the cracked leather. "Thanks, uh, Mara. I'll read it. Promise."
She raised an eyebrow, like she didn't believe him, then waved him off. "Go. Don't lose that license—it's your ticket in. And clean yourself up. You smell like a dead dog."
He grinned, sheepish. "Yeah, working on that." Tucking the book under his arm, he gave her a quick nod and headed for the exit. His mind spun—8 a.m., license, book. He was really doing this.
Outside, the sun hit him like a slap. It was loud, bright, and way too much after the slums' gray quiet. He squinted, shifting the book in his hands, the vest chafing his shoulders.
"Now what?" he muttered, glancing around. He had money—well, some of it after the walk—and his scrap savings, stuffed in his pocket. Enough for a cheap hotel, maybe. Problem was, he had no clue where to find one.
The slums didn't have hotels—just shacks and couches. Here? Everything looked expensive, like even the air cost cash.
He started walking, boots clomping on the smooth concrete. People brushed past him, some tossing him dirty looks, others ignoring him completely.
"Okay, find a hotel. Cheap. Easy. You've got this."
"Hey, mister!" a small voice piped up.
He turned, nearly dropping the book. A kid—maybe ten, with messy black hair and a gap-toothed grin—stood there, hands on his hips. He wore a patched-up jacket too big for him, sleeves dangling past his fingers.
"Uh, hi?" Fin said, blinking. "You talking to me?"
"Yeah!" The boy bounced on his toes. "You look lost. You looking for something?"
He scratched his neck, glancing around. "Uh, yeah. A hotel. Cheap one. Know any?"
The kid's grin widened. "Oh, sure! I know the best spot! Super cheap, real cozy. Follow me!" He spun around and darted off, waving for Fin to follow.
"Cozy, huh?" He muttered, jogging after him. "Better not be a dumpster." Still, the kid seemed harmless—chatty, sure, but not mean.
Maybe this was his lucky break.
They wove through the streets, the shine of the city fading as the buildings got shorter, grayer. The kid chattered nonstop—something about his dog, a stray he fed scraps to—but Fin only half-listened. His legs ached, and the vest rubbed his skin raw.
"How far is this place?" he asked, huffing a little.
"Real close!" the boy chirped, turning down an alley. "Right around here!"
The alley was narrow, dark, and stank like wet trash. Fin slowed, his gut twisting. "Uh… this doesn't look like a hotel—"
Before he could finish, the kid spun around, fast as a whip, and slammed into him. Fin hit the ground hard, air whooshing out of his lungs. The book and license skidded away, and the kid pinned him down, knees on his chest. He was light, but strong—way too strong for a scrawny ten-year-old.
"What the—?!" Fin gasped, flailing. "Get off me!"
"Got him!" the boy yelled, grinning wickedly. Shadows moved—three bigger guys stepped out from behind a stack of crates, all smirks and knuckles. One had a bat, another a chain, and the third just cracked his fists like he didn't need anything else.
"Nice catch, Riko," Bat Guy said, twirling his weapon. "Slum trash, huh? Looks like he's got some cash on him."
Fin thrashed, but Riko held him like he was paper.
"Let me go, you little rat!" he shouted, but Chain Guy laughed and stomped over, swinging the chain into his ribs.
Pain exploded, sharp and hot. He yelped, curling in on himself as Bat Guy joined in, cracking the bat across his shoulder. Something snapped—bone, probably—and he screamed, the sound bouncing off the alley walls.
"Shut him up!" Fist Guy growled, driving a punch into Fin's jaw. Blood filled his mouth, coppery and warm, and his vision blurred. They hit him again—ribs, legs, arms—bones breaking, skin splitting. He tried to fight back, swinging wildly, but his arms wouldn't move right.
"Money's here!" Riko crowed, digging into Fin's pocket and yanking out the crumpled bills. "Not much, but it'll do!"
"Finish him," Bat Guy said, stepping back. "Leave him for the rats."
They kicked him one last time—hard, in the gut—and he retched, coughing blood onto the pavement. Then they were gone, laughing as they vanished into the dark, taking his cash, his hope, everything.
Fin lay there, broken and bleeding, the alley spinning around him. His body was a mess—arms limp, legs twisted, ribs screaming with every shallow breath. The book and license sat a few feet away, mocking him.
"Why?" he rasped, voice raw. "Why me?" Was it the slums? His patched clothes? The way he looked weak, small, like prey? Rage bubbled up, hot and bitter, drowning the pain for a second.
"I'm not… trash!"
His power buzzed, faint but there, sparking in his fingers. He reached out, desperate, but there was nothing to absorb—no dead monster, no strength to take. Just cold, dirty ground.
He screamed, loud and ragged, punching the pavement with a shattered fist.
"I hate this! I hate all of you!"
The world faded, his voice echoing, but no one came. His screams turned to sobs, then to silence as he passed out, blood pooling under him.
---
Hours later, a shadow loomed over him. A man—gruff, bearded, in a stained coat—knelt down, muttering, "Damn kids… still alive, huh?" He scooped Fin up, grunting at the weight, and carried him out of the alley.
When Fin woke, he was in a hospital bed, white walls glaring under harsh lights. His body was a map of bandages—arms, chest, legs, all wrapped tight. Pain throbbed everywhere, dull but constant, and a tube stuck out of his arm, dripping something cold into his veins.
He groaned, head lolling to the side. A nurse glanced over, her face tired but kind. "Awake, huh? You're lucky that old scavenger found you. Looked like a monster got you."
He didn't answer, just stared at the ceiling. His money was gone. His pride, too. But he was alive. Barely.
And that rage? It was still there, simmering, waiting.