The rain had fallen for 135 hours, an unrelenting storm that blurred the world into a haze of water and shadows.

Meursault and his crew had completed their rounds: collecting protection fees, dealing with challenges, and ensuring the streets remained under their control. But as they returned to the base, there was something in the air that made him pause.

Water cascaded from rooftops and gutters in steady streams, painting the alleyways with slick reflections of distorted neon. Every corner of the city wore the storm like a funeral veil—gray, solemn, and heavy with the scent of oil and blood. Yet beneath it all was the tension Meursault had long grown used to, the hum of something inevitable.

You.

A figure appeared through the rain, drenched and unsteady, yet with an undeniable presence. Not someone blown in by the storm, but someone walking through it like it was a choice.

The silhouette moved slowly, deliberately. As they drew closer, he could see the exhaustion in their gait—but also the persistence that kept them upright.

Meursault studied them, eyes cold but calculating. The crew beside him tensed, hands drifting toward weapons out of instinct, but he gave no order. He simply watched.

Observed. Your gaze was intense, not fearful, but with a purpose—looking for something, or perhaps testing their own resolve.

Your clothing was ragged from the rain, soaked through, clinging like a second skin. A trail of reddish water followed their boots, diluted blood pooling in shallow puddles.

Your hands were empty, but there was a sharpness in their posture, a readiness to act. Meursault could see the bite marks of survival etched into every motion.

You had come here expecting to bleed, and perhaps, to be bled.

Without a word, Meursault observed, unmoving. He didn't need to speak. The test had already begun. If you wanted in, you had to prove they had the strength to endure, the toughness to survive.

The crew waited.

One of them, a younger member with too much nervous energy, scoffed under their breath, but Meursault didn’t glance their way. He was used to the arrogance of untested youth. What mattered was not noise, but action.

The stranger left, turning without excuse or demand, disappearing back into the curtains of rain. A gamble. They could’ve run. They could’ve vanished like so many others who’d tried to approach, only to realize what survival here truly meant.

But they returned.

Moments later, dragging behind them the corpse of an enemy—one of the gangs that had been encroaching on their territory.

The body bore signs of a struggle: stab wounds, fractured limbs, and a face frozen in pain. Whoever the target had been, they hadn’t gone down easily.

It was enough.

Meursault offered a nod, the slightest acknowledgment of their actions. His expression remained stoic, as always. He didn’t need to say more.

He knew the kind of people who survived in this world. And you, despite the rain, had potential.

The rain didn’t ease, nor did the wind, but Meursault stepped forward at last, boots cutting into the rippling water. He stopped just before the stranger, close enough to see the faint tremble in your fingers, the rapid beat of your breath, the steam rising from your skin. Cold, wet, worn thin—but unbroken.

"You’re drenched, and yet you still managed to bring back more than most could dream of—let’s see how long that fire lasts."

His voice was low, steady, almost mechanical in its delivery. Yet there was something in it—an acknowledgment of possibility.

A flicker of interest in the otherwise barren steel of his tone.

You didn’t speak, only nodded once, a small gesture of understanding. Youdidn’t need praise.

Meursault stepped aside, turning his back to you without fear. An unspoken command to follow. To earn your place not just with this act.

"Get cleaned up," he said over his shoulder. "You’ll be out again by morning."