The assassins lay bound and gagged on the inn floor, their daggers stripped and tossed into a pile. JP sat slumped on the edge of the bed, wiping slime residue from his hands with a rag. His Pulse Stake still smoked faintly where it had discharged.
"Well," he said between shaky breaths, "that escalated quickly. One minute I'm thinking about inventing a cooking pot, next minute I'm electrocuting ninjas in my pajamas."
Lyra arched an eyebrow as she tightened the rope on one of the unconscious men. "You weren't wearing pajamas."
JP blinked, then looked down at his patched tunic and trousers. "...Well, they felt like pajamas. Doesn't change the fact I'm not built for midnight murder attempts."
She snorted softly, tugging the knot tight. "You held your own. Sloppy, but alive."
"High praise coming from you," JP muttered. He glanced at his glowing belt-rig, still marveling at how the satchel flickered items into his hands. "Honestly, I thought the belt bag thing was just for convenience. Turns out, it's a life-saver. Literally. You should thank me for inventing it."
"Thank you," Lyra said flatly.
JP perked up—then realized she was deadpan. "…You don't mean that."
"No. I don't."
He sighed dramatically, flopping back on the bed. "Fine, fine. Don't encourage your party's genius inventor. See if I care."
But the grin tugging at the corners of his lips betrayed his relief. The humor, however dry, kept the dread from fully setting in.
Lyra, finished with her work, finally sat in the chair across from him. Her tone shifted, quieter, heavier. "They weren't random thugs. The way they moved, the equipment they carried—trained assassins. Not cheap."
JP rubbed his face. "Hired by our velvet-coated friend and his merchant buddies?"
"Almost certainly."
Silence hung between them. For once, JP didn't joke. His satchel felt heavier than ever, the weight of its secrets dragging against him.
Finally, he forced a crooked smile. "Well, if I'm going to be the target of assassins, I might as well lean into it. Invent something nastier. Maybe a self-defense alarm. Or, I dunno, exploding underwear."
Lyra blinked. "…Exploding what?"
"Never mind," JP said quickly, waving a hand. "Bad idea. Forget I said anything."
Despite herself, Lyra let out a laugh—a rare, genuine sound. For a moment, the tension cracked, replaced by something lighter.
But the knock that came at their door minutes later ended it. Heavy, deliberate. Not the sound of a drunk patron or innkeeper.
Both froze.
"Adventurers JP and Lyra," came a firm voice. "Open the door. The Guild requires your presence immediately."
JP groaned, sinking into the bed. "Great. Politics. I liked the assassins better."