Fin shuffled through the surprisingly fancy Hunter Guild lobby, his stomach growling loud enough to echo slightly in the quiet space.
"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," he muttered, patting his belly absently. His body ached with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion he never felt even after the longest scrap-hauling days. That power surge took more out of him than just energy.
"Fin Carver!" The voice was sharp, cutting through the lobby's low hum like a knife.
He flinched, nearly stumbling over his own tired feet. Turning, he saw her – the receptionist lady from the screening. Tight bun, glasses perched perfectly on her nose, looking at him like he was tracking mud onto her pristine floor. Which, considering the state of his boots and clothes, wasn't entirely wrong.
"Uh… yeah?" he croaked, shuffling towards her desk. His heart gave a nervous little jump. 'Did I already mess up? Are they kicking me out before I even start?'
She didn't offer anything close to a smile. Just adjusted her glasses, her gaze sharp and critical. "I am Mara. Guild Registrar. As of today, you are officially an F-rank Hunter recruit. Pay attention." Her voice was clipped, efficient. "You are required to report for duty tomorrow morning. 8 a.m. Not 8:01. Not 'around eight'. Eight o'clock sharp. Understood?"
He nodded quickly, feeling like a puppet with loose strings. "Yeah. 8 a.m. Got it."
"Good." She reached beneath the polished counter and produced a thick, beat-up looking book. The cover was worn, the title faded but readable: 'Hunter Basics: Try Not to Die (Too Quickly) Edition'. She slid it across the counter towards him, followed by a small, laminated card.
"Your temporary Hunter license. This book contains essential information. Guild structure, rank progression, basic monster identification, rules and regulations. Read it. Learn it. I expect you to know the basics by tomorrow, not wander around like a clueless stray."
He picked up the book and the card, his fingers tracing the cracked spine. The book felt heavy. "Right. Thanks, uh, Mara. I'll read it. Tonight. Promise."
She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, clearly skeptical, then gave a curt wave of dismissal. "See that you do. Don't lose that license; you won't get in without it. And for pity's sake, find somewhere to clean up. You smell faintly of gore and desperation."
He managed another weak grin, feeling sheepish. "Yeah, uh, top of my list." He tucked the book under his arm – the one that wasn't throbbing quite as badly – gave a quick nod, and turned towards the main entrance. His head felt fuzzy. 8 a.m. License. Big scary book. Okay. Deep breaths. He was actually, somehow, still in. F-rank or not.
The late afternoon sun hit him like a physical blow as he pushed through the heavy glass doors. It felt too bright, too loud after the relative quiet of the guild and the slums he was used to. He squinted, shifting the heavy book under his arm. The cheap vest they gave him chafed against his skin, especially where the wolf clawed him.
"Okay, now what?" he muttered, looking around at the bustling street. He had the money Meg gave him, minus the chunk he spent getting here, plus his meager scrap savings hidden in his pocket lining.
Enough for a cheap room for a night or two, probably. Maybe some actual food that wasn't stale bread. Problem was, he had zero clue where to find a 'cheap room' in this part of the city.
The slums didn't exactly have inns. You slept where you could. Here, everything looked shiny and expensive. Like breathing the air probably cost extra.
He started walking, his squeaky boots sounding ridiculously loud on the clean pavement. People hurried past, mostly ignoring him, though a few shot him wary glances. He probably looked like trouble, all bloody and limping.
'Right. Hotel. A cheap one. Got to be one somewhere. Just have find it.' He felt drained, not just physically tired but mentally exhausted too. Decision-making felt like wading through mud.
"Hey, mister!"
The voice was small, chirpy. He turned, almost dropping the Hunter manual. A kid, maybe ten years old, grinned up at him. Messy black hair, a noticeable gap between his front teeth, wearing a patched-up jacket way too big for him. Hands shoved in his pockets, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.
"Uh, hi?" He said, blinking. The sudden interaction felt jarring. "Talking to me?"
"Yeah!" The kid bounced again. "You look kinda lost. Need help finding somethin'?"
Fin hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. His instincts, usually sharp in the slums, felt dull, muffled by fatigue. "Uh, yeah, actually. Looking for a place to stay. A hotel? But, like, a cheap one."
The kid's grin widened, looking almost too bright. "Oh yeah! Sure thing! I know the perfect place! Super cheap, really nice. Run by my auntie! C'mon, I'll show ya! It's real close!" Without waiting for an answer, the kid spun around and darted down the street, waving enthusiastically for Fin to follow.
'Run by his auntie? Cozy, huh?' He thought, starting to hobble after him. 'Probably means a room above a noisy bar or something.' He was too tired to be properly suspicious. The kid seemed harmless enough, just… energetic. Maybe this was just dumb luck. A local kid helping out a newcomer.
They moved away from the main avenue, the buildings gradually becoming less grand, the streets narrower. The kid kept up a constant stream of chatter – something about a stray dog he named Scrappy, his favorite flavor of cheap candy, the time he almost fell in the river – Fin only half-listened, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.
His shoulder ached, his arm throbbed, and the exhaustion was a heavy cloak he couldn't shrug off.
"How much farther is this place?" He asked, his voice rough. He was starting to breathe heavily again.
"Almost there! Just down this way!" the kid chirped, turning sharply into a narrow, shadowy alleyway. The smell hit Fin instantly – damp brick, rotting garbage, stale piss. A familiar slum perfume.
Fin slowed, a prickle of unease finally managing to pierce through his fatigue. "Uh… hey, kid, this doesn't look like hotel territory—"
Before he could finish the sentence, the kid spun around with surprising speed. Instead of answering, he lowered his shoulder and slammed into Fin's midsection. Hard.
Fin wasn't expecting it at all. Already off balance and weakened, he hit the grimy ground with a sickening thud, the air knocked clean out of his lungs. The Hunter manual and his new license scattered across the filthy pavement.
Before he could react, the kid was on top of him, surprisingly heavy, pinning his arms with bony knees pressed hard against his chest. This kid was way stronger than he looked.
"What the—?!" He gasped, struggling weakly. His muscles screamed in protest, feeling unresponsive. "Get off me, you little—"
"Got 'im!" the kid yelled, not to Fin, but deeper into the alley. His grin was gone, replaced by a predatory smirk. Shadows detached themselves from the deeper gloom – three older guys, much bigger, emerged from behind overflowing dumpsters.
They looked rough, mean. One casually swung a short metal pipe, another flexed hands wrapped in dirty cloth, and the third just cracked his knuckles, a nasty smile spreading across his face.
"Nice one, Riko," Pipe Guy said, his voice gravelly. He eyed Fin up and down. "Fresh meat, huh? Looks like he might have scraped together a few credits."
Fin thrashed, a surge of adrenaline trying to fight through the crushing exhaustion. But Riko held firm, surprisingly strong, and Fin's limbs felt like lead weights. Where was that power surge now? Nowhere. Just emptiness and aching muscles.
"Let me go, you little bastard!" he shouted, desperation making his voice raw. Cloth Hands just laughed and stepped forward, delivering a vicious kick to Fin's ribs.
Pain exploded, white-hot and blinding. Fin cried out, curling instinctively, which only made the next blow worse. Pipe Guy brought the pipe down hard across his already injured shoulder. Something crunched sickeningly. Fin screamed, the sound swallowed by the narrow alley walls. He felt dizzy, nauseous.
"Shut 'im up!" Knuckle Cracker growled, leaning down and driving a hard fist into Fin's jaw. Stars burst behind his eyes. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth.
They didn't stop. Kicks and punches rained down – ribs, legs, arms. He felt bones grating, skin splitting. He tried to swing back, a feeble, uncoordinated effort, but his arms wouldn't obey. The exhaustion, the earlier fight, the power drain… it all left him terrifyingly vulnerable.
"Found it!" Riko crowed triumphantly, digging into Fin's pocket and pulling out the small wad of crumpled bills – Meg's money, his savings. "Heh. Not much, but it's ours now!"
"Good enough," Pipe Guy grunted, nudging Riko with his foot. "Let's go. Leave the trash for the rats."
They delivered a few more parting kicks for good measure – one sharp blow to the gut made Fin retch, spitting blood onto the pavement.
Then, laughing, they melted back into the shadows, Riko scrambling after them. Gone. Taking his money, his temporary license that skittered under a dumpster, and the last shreds of his hope.
Fin lay there on the cold, wet ground, gasping for breath. Everything hurt. His body felt broken, violated. The alley spun slowly around him. The Hunter manual lay open a few feet away, pages ruffled by a stray breeze, mocking him.
"Why?" he choked out, the word barely a whisper. Tears of pain and fury welled up. "Why always me?" Was it stamped on his forehead? 'Slum rat. Easy target. Kick here.' The helplessness was suffocating, worse than the physical pain. Rage, cold and sharp this time, bubbled up through the agony.
"I'm not… I'm not just trash!"
He felt for that buzz, that power, desperately scraping together the dregs of his will. Faintly, weakly, he felt a flicker in his fingertips. He reached out, trying to grab… anything. But there was nothing here. No monster energy, no lingering power from the wolf. Just cold stone, filth, and his own failing body.
The power wouldn't come. It needed a source, and maybe it needed him to not be completely burned out.
He slammed a fist – the one that wasn't definitely broken – against the grimy pavement. A raw, ragged scream tore from his throat, echoing uselessly off the brick walls.
"I hate this! I hate all of it!"
The world started to gray out at the edges. His own ragged breathing sounded distant. The screams dissolved into choked sobs, then into whimpers, and finally, into silence as darkness claimed him, the stench of garbage and his own blood filling his nostrils.
---
Hours later, maybe? Time felt meaningless. A rough shape loomed over him. A gruff voice muttered, "Godsdamn kids these days… muggings getting worse. Huh. Still breathing?" Rough hands probed him gently, then scooped him up with a grunt.
"Heavy little scrap, ain'tcha?" The world tilted and swayed as he was carried out of the stinking alley.
When Fin swam back to consciousness, the first thing he registered was the smell of antiseptic and the harsh, steady glare of fluorescent lights overhead. He was in a bed. A stiff, narrow bed with thin sheets. White walls surrounded him.
His body felt like one giant bruise, wrapped tightly in bandages. Arms, chest, legs – he could feel the constriction everywhere. A dull, throbbing pain was his constant companion, punctuated by sharper twinges whenever he tried to move even slightly. A thin tube was taped to his arm, feeding something cold into his veins.
He let out a low groan, turning his head slowly on the starchy pillow. A nurse, looking tired but with kind eyes, glanced over from a nearby desk.
"Well, look who decided to join the living. You're lucky old Manius found you when he did. Said he thought a ghoul had gotten hold of you, the state you were in."
He didn't answer. Couldn't summon the energy. He just stared up at the water-stained ceiling tiles. His money was gone. His pride was definitely gone. But he was alive. Somehow.
And underneath the pain, the exhaustion, the humiliation… that cold, sharp rage was still there. A tiny, hard ember buried deep inside, waiting. Just waiting.