"Only you can squeeze something good out of a bad situation," Klaire rattled on. "Granted, that good is completely self-centred."
"—You should've stopped at the compliment, kid," Tsuna interrupted. "Now be a dear and take the garbage out before you go." She said, slipping some cash into Klaire's pockets.
Klaire arched a brow, the extra cash sharpening her suspicion.
"It won't cover the missing four hundred," Tsuna said, tallying it up. "Or the money you owe me, which I'm magnanimous enough not to charge interest on, in case you forgot. That said, it's a personal best. Possibly a national record, if incompetence paid medals."
"I'd be rich if you didn't skim half my cut," Klaire said, crossing her arms and pouting.
"And today wouldn't have bankrupted me if you hadn't aantagonizedhalf my staff, pissed off officials, driven away our corrupt cops, and made more enemies while chasing records."
"Well—"
"—Guess who's going to bribe them again?"
"You, bu—"
"—Guess who's replacing their entire staff?"
"You, b—"
"Whose day ends in debt and deserves a chapter in the book of bad luck?"
"You—"
"—And who's doing extra shifts?"
"Me..!" Klaire sighed, accepting defeat as she zipped the trash bag shut and hauled it outside, shooting Tsuna a sulky glare the whole way.
The glass window allowed Klaire to stare back into the shop, unease settling in when she rrealizedshe couldn't read Tsuna's reasoning. Tsuna never let her off lightly, especially not when Klaire was present and profitable. Their agreement was simple: when Klaire showed up, she was used to the fullest, which made this mercy feel wrong.
Klaire scanned the trash-choked alley, her gaze sweeping every inch of the narrow space. Every establishment along the block used it as a dumping ground, piling refuse wherever it would fit.
There were only a handful of places suitable for an ambush—unless someone fancied hiding in the garbage. In that case, the entire alley became a veil of invisibility.
Klaire kicked the dustbin before opening it, a sharp test to make sure nothing was hiding inside. Satisfied, she dumped her trash into another bin already overflowing; sacred enough that she hadn't dared open it earlier.
She stepped back toward the exit, barely four feet away, each movement slow and deliberate, breath held tight in her chest. The sensation of being watched clung to her skin, refusing to loosen its grip.
The streets always had eyes… especially in their taboo depths, where darkness felt earned.
But not in broad daylight.
And certainly not this close to a busy street humming with nosy pedestrians.
Each step stretched into an eternity, repeating itself, anchoring her in place. Four feet became a million steps. And somehow—impossibly—she found herself right back beside the dustbin she'd been too scared to open.
Before she could regain her composure, a voice exploded behind her.
"Rude much!"
Klaire yelped, heart slamming into her throat—feeling, for the first time since she'd conquered the streets, like a normal woman again.
"Oh my god—Metelda." Klaire gasped for air.
"Stench?"
"Fear," Klaire said between breaths.
"Holding your breath reduces fear?"
"Helps with jump scares and—no. How long have you been behind me?"
"You ignored me when I stood in front," Metelda said, shrugging like this was reasonable. "So I came from behind."
Klaire glanced around, replaying her earlier scan of the alley. She checked Metelda for paint, silently praised Quazy, then changed the subject before things grew any stranger.
"What brings you to my part of town—of town at all?"
She stared around in disbelief, impressed that Metelda had explored at all, much less planned a surprise visit. "Is Mr Terror okay?"
Panic took over as Klaire launched into a rapid-fire list of horrific, wildly hypothetical accidents that could've struck the Terrors, only stopping when Metelda finally gathered enough energy to interrupt.
"Did you always talk this much?"
"N–no," Klaire caught herself, lowered her voice to something she assumed suited Metelda's ears, and tried again. "I'm calm. Not your kind of calm, but… calm." She awkwardly mirrored Metelda's stance.
"Good."
Metelda nodded, traded an admission pass for the thousand Klaire never felt leave her pocket, and walked away as if that closed the conversation.
It took Klaire a second to break free of the shock before she read the document, already knowing better than to chase Metelda with useless questions.
According to the file, Klaire had passed the Triple-S admission with a perfect score. Not an honest one. A managed one. Metelda's grace marks kept her safely unremarkable, clean enough to avoid scrutiny, forgettable enough to move freely.
Klaire had been admitted as a temporary student on a three-month trial, placed in the same class where the victim—Trisha—had officially committed suicide. She was inserted into the system itself, granted the freedom to investigate from the inside… and offered something else, quietly and dangerously close to choice: an education, if she chose to take it.
"How…?" Klaire stammered.
"Life is full of loopholes," Metelda said, smiling to herself. "Isn't that one of your lines?"
"You remember that?" Klaire asked, stunned. "You remember me saying that?"
Metelda shrugged. "I was young. Don't remember much. But that idea stuck."
"B-But you were four?" Klaire blurted.
"Age!?" Metelda dismissed the topic with a wave. "It helped in ways. Consider this repayment. Couldn't manage alone. Now even." The broken sentences came out in a rush, almost forced, and she was gone just as quickly.
"Spooky," Klaire said, a chill running through her. "I've never heard her say that many words before." The shiver crawled lower.
Tsuna found Klaire outside and draped a jacket over her shoulders, eyes darting between Klaire and Metelda. Klaire ignored the barrage of questions, too stunned to untangle them into answers.
"What did that girl do to you?"
By the time Klaire pulled herself together enough to explain the strange chain of events, Tsuna had reclaimed her generosity, slipping the jacket back over her own trembling shoulders.
"Take your time," Klaire said, giving Tsuna a reassuring pat, even as her own hands betrayed a lingering tremor. "I'm already six months late for class. I'll catch you later, yeah? Yeah!"
It took Tsuna longer than she liked to regain her balance. When she did, she went to the glass window and stared outside, eyes settling on Metelda; still standing there within her domain, unmoving, like a warning sign made flesh. Whatever boundary surrounded her, no one dared cross.
It was lucky that Metelda sat close to the only exit, barring the customers from leaving. Unlucky that she might also remember all the scheming Tsuna had confided in her, or involved her in, during her infant years.
"No wonder she's been two steps ahead." A crooked grin crept across Tsuna's face. "Now that I know, I can stay three steps ahead of her."
A cold sensation crept along Metelda's spine, but she remained still, unwilling to waste energy on trifles. The old hag is up to something, she observed, and buried the thought where it couldn't distract her.
Before leaving, she penned a single-line proverb in the Extra Tip section of the bill:
"Serve with heart, not for reward. Let generosity arrive unasked, untainted by the clumsy admission of greed."
It affirmed without accusing, touched without pointing. Each reader felt included, yet spared. And in that careful ambiguity, Metelda managed the rare feat of stirring every nerve while leaving no trace of herself behind.
———<>||<>——— End of Chapter Fifty-Seven. ———<>||<>———