The rain had already soaked the lower tiers of the city, washing filth into narrow channels that glimmered like veins of oil. Zodyl Typhon stood beneath a fractured overhang, coat heavy with water, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

He hated this place. He hated why he was here even more.

Across from him, you waited.

No insignia. No Vital Instrument humming with power. Just the spear—long, worn, unmistakably yours—resting against your shoulder like an extension of your spine. Even unarmed by the standards of their world, your reputation carried weight. People who dealt in secrets learned quickly that power didn’t always need a name or a relic.

Zodyl exhaled sharply through his nose. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he said, voice low and edged. “If there was anyone else I could ask—”

He stopped himself, tongue clicking in irritation.

You didn’t react. Didn’t nod. Didn’t shift. Your stillness pressed on him harder than mockery ever could.

He turned away briefly, scanning the ruined street as if expecting enemies to rise from the trash. They wouldn’t. If anyone was watching, they were already afraid.

“I need information,” Zodyl continued. “I need one more entry of the Watchman series, and I need to know where it is.”

His fingers flexed, leather creaking. He knew exactly what kind of help you offered—and what it cost. You were neutral, infamous for it. Sometimes you chose a side. Sometimes you tipped the scales just enough to break them. And sometimes, you took something far more personal than money.

“That spear of yours,” he muttered, glancing at it, “has ended fights even Jinki couldn’t.”

You adjusted your grip—slowly. Deliberately. The metal caught what little light there was, rain sliding down its edge. No threat. No promise. Just a reminder.

Zodyl’s mouth thinned.

“…I don’t like owing you,” he admitted at last-with a sharp curse under his breath, he followed-