Riven returned to the center of the yard while Garron climbed back onto the broken desk near the collapsed office wall. The man settled there with lazy ownership, cigarette lit now, smoke curling through gaps in the ruined ceiling. He looked perfectly content watching someone else work.
That, at least, felt consistent.
The yard seemed different after money had changed hands. Before, it had been an abandoned lot full of rust and broken machines. Now Riven saw lanes of movement, cover between scrap piles, clean sightlines to the exits, and reflective surfaces scattered everywhere like tools waiting to be used.
Fifteen thousand credits had bought ugliness with potential.
He rolled stiffness from his shoulder and focused inward.
Prism Shift rested in its slot with the same dense presence as before. Quiet while idle. Punishing when mishandled. The kind of power that demanded respect and offered none in return.
"Let's try honesty," he muttered.
From the desk, Garron glanced over. "Talking to yourself already?"
"I'm talking to the skill."
"Tell it the rent's due monthly."
Riven ignored him and chose a shallow puddle several paces away.
He committed.
Space tightened around the chosen point. The pull came sharp but controlled, and a blink later he landed beside the puddle with both feet set cleanly beneath him. Only a mild pulse struck behind his eyes.
Manageable.
He selected a steel panel leaning near the far wall and shifted again.
This time the transition dragged just enough to spoil the landing. His right foot touched first, balance tilted, and he had to catch himself against the panel before falling.
Garron watched through a stream of smoke.
"You got greedy after one success."
"I moved the same distance."
"That wasn't the difference."
Riven straightened. "Then explain it properly."
"You wanted the second jump to feel better than the first one. Skills notice impatience."
It sounded close enough to truth that Riven disliked hearing it.
He moved on without answering.
For the next several minutes he shortened the distances and changed the surfaces. Puddle to casing. Casing to a polished gear housing. Housing to a strip of reflective glass still trapped in a frame. The cleaner the reflection, the smoother the transition felt. The more uncertain the angle, the harsher the strain became.
By the sixth use, pressure had begun building behind his eyes.
By the seventh, his legs felt less reliable.
By the eighth, he sat on an overturned crate before his knees made the decision for him.
Garron dropped from the desk and wandered over with the unhurried pace of a man who assumed nothing dangerous would happen without his permission.
"You use that thing like stolen boots," he said.
Riven looked up at him. "Meaning?"
"You're trying to get everything out of it before someone takes it back."
"That sounds strangely specific."
"I've lived a broad life."
Riven gave a tired snort.
Garron crouched, picked up a shard of polished metal, and turned it in his fingers so the light flashed across its surface.
"You keep thinking the skill moves you," he said. "Wrong way to look at it."
"It literally moves me."
"No. It obeys a decision you made."
Riven frowned.
Garron noticed and seemed pleased.
"There's the face people make when they learn something useful and hate the source."
"You could try speaking clearly."
"I am speaking clearly. You're just unbearably dense."
Annoying man but he was stuck with him for now.
Riven stood again and took the shard from him. He angled it toward an old machine shell across the yard, catching a narrow reflection along the curved metal.
Harder target. Tight landing. Less room for error.
He chose it completely and shifted.
The pull hit harder than before, sharp enough to tighten his chest, but he emerged balanced atop the shell with no stumble, no scramble, no wasted correction.
The pain remained, but the instability was gone.
He stepped down slowly.
Garron nodded once. "Better."
"What changed?"
"You stopped negotiating with the jump halfway through."
Riven considered that.
He had been choosing targets the way poor men bought food—always leaving room to reconsider. Maybe the skill hated hesitation because space itself required cleaner commitments than life usually did.
An irritating lesson, if true.
They continued.
Garron pointed out surfaces Riven would have ignored: a strip of chrome under grime, water gathered in a tire rim, a cracked mirror bolted to an old locker door. Some attempts failed badly enough to rattle his teeth. Others worked so cleanly they felt effortless.
When he overreached, the backlash punished him immediately.
When he committed cleanly, Prism Shift responded.
By the end of the hour, sweat clung to his shirt and every muscle in his legs carried fatigue, but the pattern was becoming clearer.
The skill did not hate distance.
It hated doubt.
Riven bent forward with hands on his knees, breathing hard.
Behind him, Garron had gone quiet.
That alone drew attention.
Riven straightened and found the larger man staring toward the front gate through the broken fencing.
"What is it?"
Garron flicked ash aside without taking his eyes off the entrance.
"Company."
Riven followed his gaze.
Three figures were approaching the yard from the street.
One walked with measured calm, scanning the space before she even entered.
"I forgot to ask," Garron said casually. "Where'd you get that skill?"
A small warning stirred in Riven's gut. He was reminded again that the yard owner was a pain in the ass to deal with.
"Why do you ask?"
Garron flicked ash aside. "No reason. Just heard people asking around for someone who used a mirror-step skill in the Glass Corridor."
The smirk on his face made it clear he was enjoying himself.
Riven understood the warning too late.
He focused on the approaching group as they reached the gate.
Now that they were closer, he recognized her immediately.
The woman from the Glass Corridor had found him.