Garron rolled his neck once, then settled into place on the cracked concrete as if the yard itself had made room for him.
Up close, the size was more convincing. Thick forearms, wide shoulders, hands marked by old cuts and harder work. Plenty of men in the lower district were large. Very few carried that size without wasting motion. Garron stood loose, balanced, and entirely unbothered.
Riven kept his own stance casual.
There was no reason to rush into proving anything. Pride had poor resale value.
"You always greet visitors like this?" Riven asked.
"Only the ones who sneak in, insult the property, and then start teleporting around puddles."
"I didn't insult it. I said it had potential."
"That's what people say when a thing is ugly and useful."
"Then we agree."
Garron's laugh came quick and rough, like it surprised even him.
"I might like you," he said. "That usually ends badly for someone."
Then he moved.
One moment he was standing still, the next a heavy fist was driving toward Riven's chest. Riven slipped outside the line of it by inches and felt the air drag across his shirt.
Fast.
He answered with Burst Step.
Power snapped through his legs, launching him to Garron's flank. Riven struck low and sharp toward the ribs, choosing speed over commitment.
The blow landed cleanly.
Garron barely reacted. His elbow came around at once, brutal and compact. Riven ducked under it and retreated before the larger man's other hand could close on him.
"That was polite," Garron said.
"It was efficient."
"No," Garron replied, advancing again. "Efficient would've hurt."
The man fought the same way he talked—plainly, with no wasted decoration. He took ground step by step, using reach and weight to make the yard smaller around Riven. There was no reckless lunging, only pressure that asked a question every second.
"Where will you go now?"
Riven circled past a cluster of rusted machinery and let Shadow Veil spread through him. His outline blurred into broken shade and jagged metal. Presence thinned. Sound softened.
He slipped left.
Garron didn't turn to search.
Instead, he kicked a loose steel rod across the concrete. It struck a leaning panel near Riven with a violent clang. The panel toppled, dragging two others with it in a crashing chain.
Riven moved before the metal hit the ground and the veil broke apart.
Garron nodded as if something had been confirmed.
"Good skill," he said. "Bad environment. This place has too many loose variables."
Riven brushed dust from his sleeve. "You always narrate while working?"
"Only when the audience looks slow."
Annoying man.
Useful man, possibly.
Riven reached for Prism Shift.
A puddle near Garron's boot caught the sky. Behind him, an old machine casing reflected enough light to anchor a second point. Two options. One clean path.
He committed.
The world folded inward.
Pressure drove behind his eyes as space pulled him through itself. He emerged at Garron's rear shoulder and struck instantly, palm aimed for the neck.
Garron twisted late.
The blow caught shoulder and jaw instead, enough to stagger him half a step.
That half-step mattered.
So did the fist that buried itself in Riven's ribs a heartbeat later.
Pain detonated through his side. Breath vanished. He stumbled backward into a stack of tires and had to brace a hand against rubber to stay upright.
By the time he dragged air back in, Garron was watching him with new attention.
"There," Garron said. "Now we're speaking honestly."
Riven pressed a palm to his side. "Your honesty is overrated."
"That strike had weight. New skill?"
Riven said nothing.
"Thought so." Garron tilted his head slightly. "You're forcing it too hard. Good movement, bad relationship."
"You diagnose strangers often?"
"Normally I collect rent, which I'm not getting from you. I should at least get some fun out of it." Garron smirked.
The headache behind Riven's eyes had sharpened. Prism Shift would work again if pushed, but the cost would be worse this time. Garron, meanwhile, looked fresh enough to start a second conversation with his fists.
Riven measured the yard again.
Cover. Reflection angles. Exit points. Privacy.
Then he measured Garron.
Territory. Awareness. Local pull. Probably connected.
Winning this fight earned pride and likely a bigger fight tomorrow. Losing gained bruises. Neither option was attractive.
So he chose a third.
"How much?" Riven asked.
Garron blinked once, then grinned slowly.
"There you are. I was starting to think survival instincts had missed your generation."
"The yard," Riven said. "How much to use it?"
"That depends. Are you asking as the boy I hit once, or the boy who insulted my business model?"
"Quote both."
Garron named the first number. "18,000 credits."
Riven stared at him. "That's extortion."
"That was the lower figure."
"The second?"
Garron named the higher one. "25,000."
Riven let out a breath through his nose. "You enjoy yourself too much."
"I work in storage yards. I create joy where I can."
They went back and forth for several minutes, neither pretending it was only about money. Garron tested patience. Riven tested greed. The numbers dropped by degrees.
In the end they settled on something painful, but survivable. 15,000 credits every month. Scavengers learned to haggle the way others learned to pray.
Riven counted coins into Garron's broad palm.
The larger man weighed them, then tucked them into his coat.
"8,000 now," Garron said. "Rest in three days. Miss the second payment and I start charging interest in bruises."
"You rehearse these lines?"
"No. That's why they sound natural."
Riven ignored him and glanced around the lot once more.
"What else?"
"Three things," Garron said. "Don't bring guards. Don't bring idiots. If you plan to die here, warn me first so I can charge cleanup."
"Your hospitality is memorable."
"My clients say that."
He stepped aside and gestured across the yard with mock grandeur.
Riven walked toward the center of the lot, already thinking through drills, routes, and how long it would take before Prism Shift stopped feeling like broken glass in his veins.
Behind him, Garron called out.
"One more condition."
Riven turned.
"If anyone asks," Garron said, lighting his cigarette at last, "tell them I won clearly. Reputation saves time."