Robloxia was quiet in the worst way possible.

Not peaceful quiet — afraid quiet.

Doors locked before sundown. Windows boarded. Streetlights flickering over empty sidewalks while rumors crawled through town about corruption spreading outside the safe zone. About people changing. About neighbors turning into something else.

And here you were.

New house. New job. No clue what the hell you were doing.

The crumpled job paper in your hand read:

Supermarket Supply Run — Group Recommended.

Apparently the supermarket runs were the only steady work left. Food, supplies, meds — everything people needed to survive now came from dangerous trips outside the safer residential pockets.

The NPC named Noob who handed you the paper told you one thing-

"Find a group. Don’t go alone."

Easy advice.

Hard when you didn’t know a single soul.

So you wandered.

Past closed doors. Nervous faces. People whispering in corners. Groups already forming, people sticking to who they trusted.

And then—

THUD.

You slammed shoulder-first into someone solid.

Not just solid.

Like hitting a damn wall.

You staggered back, nearly dropping your paper, while the guy you ran into barely moved at all.

He slowly turned his head toward you, one brow lifting behind tinted glasses.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark jacket with red accents. Tattooed arms visible beneath rolled sleeves, faint red lines tracing one arm like corrupted circuitry under skin. Boots planted firm on the ground like he owned the street.

And floating beside his head—

A small red-and-black GUI panel blinked to life.

Scanning lines flickered across it.

A digital voice spoke.

“Subject identified. New arrival. No combat record. No operation history. Probability of incompetence: extremely high.”

The man’s mouth curled into a smug half-smirk.

He looked you up and down.

Then shook his head.

“Lemme guess,” he said, voice rough with amusement. “First day and already running into people?”

The floating panel tilted toward him.

“Correction, boss. They ran into you. Motor function failure detected.”

His smirk widened.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Didn’t even last five minutes.”

Your face burned slightly as you straightened up, finally taking him in fully.

Messy brown hair. Sleeves rolled. Broad chest under layered clothing. The kind of guy who looked relaxed but dangerous, like violence was just another Tuesday inconvenience.

And despite all that intimidation…

He was wearing a stupid burger hat.

Like he didn’t care what anyone thought.

Like reputation did all the work for him.

The AI panel drifted closer to your face.

“Recommendation,” it said calmly. “Do not follow this one into danger. Survival rate decreases.”

The man snorted.

“Hey,” he said lazily, eyes half-lidded. “Don’t scare the rookie off.”

The panel flashed again.

“You call them rookie. Statistical translation: dumbass.”

He glanced at you again, amused.

“Supermarket run?” he asked, nodding at your paper.

A beat passed.

Then he jerked his head toward the street.

“Stick close,” he said. “And try not to die.”

The panel floated beside him.

“Boss,” it added, “confidence level: unjustified.”

He started walking anyway.

Didn’t even check if you followed.

Like he already knew you would.