Altar smelled of dust and disuse. Allen Veton stood before it, hands at his sides, shoulders loose. He'd stopped expecting anything from his family years ago, but even he hadn't expected this. "You should be grateful, Allen." The voice belonged to his cousin, Darian. Three rows of empty pews stretched behind them. No guests. No witnesses beyond the three Veton cousins who'd come not to celebrate, but to watch. Darian leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "We found you a wife. A former S-rank Hunter." He said it the way someone might announce they'd found a stray dog. "You know what S-rank means, don't you?" A pause. "Of course you don't. Trash like you couldn't reach E-rank if you trained for a century." Allen didn't answer. He'd learned a long time ago that words were useless against people who'd already decided you were worthless. His gaze drifted to the woman beside him. Seraphina Valemont sat in a wheelchair at the foo

Allen had closed his eyes somewhere in the long stretch of silence, but he hadn't slept. He couldn't. Every creak of the shack, every gust of wind through the cracks, every shallow breath from the woman on the bed kept him tethered to the surface of consciousness. His body was heavy with exhaustion, but his mind wouldn't stop. He'd been listening to her breathe for what felt like hours. The rhythm had become familiar. Inhale. A pause. Exhale. A longer pause. Sometimes the pauses stretched so long he'd lean forward, heart kicking against his ribs, before the next breath finally came. She was still there. Still alive. Still his problem. 'She wasn't a problem. She was a responsibility.' The distinction mattered, though he wasn't sure why. A problem was something you solved. Something you fixed and moved on from. A responsibility was something you carried. And he'd already decided he wasn't going to put her down. The wind picked up outside, rattling the window frame. Allen shifted in

The market was exactly what Allen had expected. A long stretch of muddy ground lined with makeshift stalls. Carts with broken wheels. Blankets spread on the ground piled with goods that were one bad day away from falling apart. The smell was a mixture of rot, smoke, and desperation. But beneath it, something sharper. Woodsmoke from cooking fires. The yeasty scent of fresh bread. He'd left Seraphina with the blanket tucked around her shoulders and the door wedged shut with a loose floorboard. It wouldn't stop anyone determined to get in, but it would slow them down. And if anyone tried, he'd deal with them when he got back. 800 Copper sat in his jacket pocket, heavy as a promise. He'd counted it twice before leaving. Three times, actually. Old habits from years of having nothing. The bread stall was at the far end of the market, near the collapsed well that nobody used anymore. A woman with sunken cheeks and sharp eyes stood behind a wooden board piled with dark loaves. She watched

Afternoon light through the window had shifted from gray to gold, then back to gray again. Allen hadn't moved from the chair in hours. His back was stiff. His legs had gone numb somewhere around midday. But her hand was in his, and her fingers were moving, and he wasn't going anywhere. Three fingers now. Index. Middle. Ring. They curled inward toward her palm in a motion that was no longer a twitch. It was deliberate. Controlled. The kind of movement that spoke without words. He'd been watching this hand since he'd taken it after the bath, after he'd wrapped her in the blanket and laid her down. At first, nothing. Then a single twitch. Then two. Now all four fingers were curling around his palm with something that was almost a grip. The strength wasn't there yet. A newborn could have pulled free. But the intent was unmistakable. [Ding!] [Violet: Wife's motor function continuing to improve. Sustained care and emotional connection are accelerating recovery. Current rate exceeds init

He walked with his head down, one hand resting on the knife at his belt. A thin dog watched him from an alley and didn't bother barking. Nothing unusual. The gate Violet had detected was northeast, 2 kilometers out. Allen followed the narrow paths between crumbling buildings, his boots squelching ceplak-ceplak.. through mud that never seemed to dry. He passed the collapsed well where he'd scavenged firewood two days ago. The memory felt distant now, like something that had happened to someone else. He passed the market square where he'd bought bread and soup. A rat scurried across his path and disappeared into a drainage ditch. 15 minutes passed. The buildings around him grew sparser, more ruined. He was nearing the edge of the slum now, where the city's neglect was most visible. Collapsed roofs. Streets that had been swallowed by mud years ago. A dead tree with a single crow perched on its highest branch, watching him pass with blank black eyes. He was maybe 200 meters from the