The flickering glow of Zander's cheap wristwatch read 4:17 a.m. He lay sprawled on a mattress stained with old ramen spills, one arm dangling off the edge, fingertips brushing the cracked screen of a burner phone. His other hand clutched a half-empty bottle of cheap liquor—the kind that burned your throat but cost less than a candy bar.
"C'mon…" he muttered, squinting at the phone. His voice was rough from three sleepless nights. The screen buzzed, casting blue light across his sharp face—a face built for trickery, not trust. Dark circles hung under his silver-gray eyes, and a fresh cut marked his jaw from a recent "misunderstanding" with a pawnshop owner.
The job listing glowed on-screen:
[URGENT] C-Rank Escort Mission
Client: Kael Veyra (D-Rank Awakener, A-Rank Talent: Lightning Manipulation)
Objective: Dungeon Clearance (D-Rank Labyrinth, Sector Gamma-9)
Reward: 15,000 Nova Credits
Note: First-time raider. No experience needed. No questions asked.
Smirk*
Zander's lips curled into a smirk. Perfect.
"But damn... A rank talent?"
Zander's thumb lingered over the "A-Rank Talent" notation, nail digging crescent moons into the phone's casing. He'd seen that scarlet F on his own certificate enough times to memorize every loop of the rejection stamp—the way it bled ink at the edges, as if even bureaucracy couldn't contain its disdain. His gaze drifted to the peeling Nova Corps recruitment poster above his bed, its grinning Awakeners haloed by their S-Rank glows. The corner was singed where he'd once thrown a lit cigarette at it.
"Lucky little shit," he murmured to the empty room, tossing back the last swig of liquor. It burned going down, just like the phantom heat that sometimes crackled beneath his ribs during fights. The kind that vanished the moment he reached for it, leaving only the sour aftertaste of almost.
He thumbed the fake C-Rank badge on his nightstand, its jagged sun emblem cold against his skin. Real Awakeners didn't need tin and eyeliner scars. Real Awakeners didn't take D-Rank scraps.
But real Awakeners also didn't survive on ramen and regret.
— Two Hours Earlier
The orphanage director's voice still echoed in his head:
"Your parents died heroes, Zander. You should be proud."
'Proud? What a joke...'
Zander was an orphan, kicked out at eighteen with an F-Rank: Talentless stamp on the Awakener Certificate he never actually received.
'Awakener Certificate? Yeah, right... I failed to awaken. What Awakener Certificate?'
He adjusted the stolen C-Rank badge pinned to his chest – a jagged sun crudely etched into fake steel. His reflection in the bathroom mirror lied perfectly: polished (plastic) armor, a toy gun strapped to his thigh, and a fake scar drawn above his eyebrow with eyeliner.
"Ladies and gents," he whispered, deepening his voice to a whiskey-soaked growl, "Captain Zane Voss, Stormblade Division. Survived the Siege of Jakarta with a butterknife and a prayer."
The act was flawless. It had to be.