“You’re already here?” Chase crossed his arms, cocking his head with a bemused expression. His ever-present cocky smile was still in place, as if he hadn’t nearly flirted with death just hours ago. “How the hell did you get here so fast? Even I—”

  “You wanted to see me, and I’m here,” John cut in. He kept his voice steady, ignoring the mechanical hum resonating behind him—the Ship’s quiet but insistent presence. It was subtle, a whisper only he could hear, yet it pressed against him like an unseen force, tugging at his very bones. The cold, lifeless interior of the elevator cabin called to him, promising the comfort of the known, the controlled. His resolve, so sharp minutes ago, now wavered like mist in the morning sun. He took a deep breath, forcing his focus back to the werewolf in front of him. “So, what’s this all about?”

  Chase let out a long sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “I—” He hesitated, then blew out a breath. “Fuck me.” His usual confidence deflated slightly, replaced by something rarer—uncertainty. “There’s been… complications.”

  John arched an eyebrow. “How so?” His hand instinctively reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the familiar shape of a cigarette. But before he could bring it to his lips, he caught the sharp glare Chase shot him. With a smirk, he slid the cigarette back into the pack. “Right, right. Sensitive nose. You’re a big baby, I get it.”

  Chase exhaled through his nose, shaking his head, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Anyway, we should talk somewhere else. Too many ears here.”

  “I’m right behind you.” John replied.

  They stepped inside the Hot Spot, the once-familiar restaurant now holding an entirely different weight. The empty tables, which had once been nothing more than furniture, now carried an eerie stillness, as if they were watching. John still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that this place—where he had spent so many afternoons—was a front for something else entirely.

  “This surprises you?” Chase chuckled, noticing John’s strange expression, as they walked through a dimly lit corridor. “Wait until I show you another portal. There’s one hidden in this run-down laundromat—you have to press specific buttons on a washing machine, and then the whole thing opens like a door.” He demonstrated with exaggerated hand gestures, grinning.

  John snorted. “Now you’re just fucking with me.”

  Chase only grinned wider.

  Then, they stepped into the portal room.

  Even though John had seen it before, the silvery ring still stole his breath. His eyes traced the intricate engravings woven into its surface, shapes and symbols that felt just beyond comprehension. Some deep, buried part of him wanted to understand them, to reach out and unravel whatever secrets lay beneath their curves and spirals.

  His thoughts barely had time to settle before Chase strode through the portal without hesitation.

  John took a breath and followed. The transition was instant, yet disorientating.

  One moment, he was stepping forward—the next, a wave of scent and sound crashed into him. The air was thick with something metallic, tinged with spices and something richer, earthier. His lungs burned slightly from the shift, his senses scrambling to adjust. The Bazaar unfolded around him—a sprawling, chaotic network of shops, stalls, and winding streets, packed with figures that looked as if they had stepped out of the pages of a dozen different fantasy novels and stitched themselves together with modernity. John forced himself to keep his stride steady, even as his eyes darted between the faces in the crowd.

  A group of human-like supernaturals with scaly spots on their otherwise normal skin chattered animatedly, their Terminal devices held up to their faces. Their tails of varying sizes swung behind them, reminding John of a group of cats. Nearby, a tall, thin figure passed by, their coat seemingly woven from the night sky itself, the swirling darkness clashing with the absurdly pink fur lining the collar.

  John blinked. “What the hell?” He whispered as his gaze lingered on the odd figure for a few moments. His gaze flickered to a tired-looking middle-aged man in a crisp black suit, stifling a yawn as he walked past—not bothered in the slightest by the strange company around him. Then his eyes landed on a werewolf, fully transformed, yet dressed in a trench coat over something resembling plate armor. The beast moved with urgency, ducking into a nearby bar without a second glance.

  John let out a low whistle. “I’m never getting used to this.”

  Chase chuckled. “Better start trying.”

  But John barely heard him. His fingers twitched, glancing down at the Spell Glove on his hand. The faint glow of its enchanted mechanisms pulsed softly, a reminder of why he was even here in the first place. He let out a slow breath, gaze flicking back to Chase—who, for once, had gone quiet. The werewolf’s usual easygoing air remained, but there was something else lurking beneath the surface now—something more serious.

  John tried to ignore the way that made his stomach twist.

  “I should try bringing that thing here,” he mused, half to himself, tilting his head as they passed a shop window displaying rows of armor—both medieval and modern, reinforced with strange, glowing sigils. The craftsmanship was incredible. His fingers itched to inspect them, but Chase was already moving ahead. John hurried after him, just as his companion was swallowed by the dense crowd.

  The deeper they went, the quieter the streets became.

  The once booming energy of the Bazaar slowly faded into the background, replaced by the subtle hum of unseen machinery, the occasional flickering of dim neon lights above narrow alleyways. John’s shoulders tensed as the last murmurs of the crowd disappeared behind them, the silence closing in like a curtain.

  “We’re here.” Chase’s voice finally broke the quiet as he entered the safehouse.

  John followed him inside, the door creaking shut behind them.

  Chase dropped into a chair with a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. The wooden frame groaned under his weight.

  John took the seat across from him, arms crossing.

  “I bet you have a lot of questions.” Chase met his gaze, something unreadable in his expression.

  "Understatement of the century," John muttered, his voice dry as he leaned back in the rickety chair. "Now that this mess with the Ninth Street is over, I have—"

  "About that," Chase cut in, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic edge of hesitation.

  John narrowed his eyes. The werewolf’s usual easy confidence was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Chase looked guilty.

  "It’s far from over," Chase admitted with a wince. "In fact, it’s probably worse than before."

  John blinked. Once. Twice. A slow, creeping disbelief settled over him.

  "How could it possibly be worse?" His voice rose, laced with barely contained frustration. "Chase, we nearly died back there! It’s a miracle we’re both alive!" A sharp breath hitched in his throat as a memory flashed—his own demise, the gut-wrenching terror, the pain. He forced it back down, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. "So tell me, what the hell are you saying?"

  Chase dragged a hand through his hair, clearly stalling for time. He hesitated, then finally spoke. "You remember Carter, my brother?"

  John gave him a deadpan stare. "Chase, I met him fifteen minutes ago. I’d be worried if I forgot about him already."

  "Right, right." Chase let out a nervous chuckle, but it fell flat. "So, my brother was… impressed by your performance today."

  John's stomach turned. That wasn’t a good thing. Not in the slightest.

  "And?"

  "And now he wants us to join his squad on a raid."

  John exhaled sharply through his nose. "A raid?"

  "A warehouse, actually," Chase corrected, grimacing. "A big one. Ninth Street’s largest operation. Taking it out would cripple them. But, uh…" He hesitated. "There’s going to be at least thirty of them inside."

  A long, heavy silence stretched between them. John stared, unblinking, before letting out a hollow, humorless chuckle.

  "Clear a warehouse full of those—those fucking monsters?" His voice wavered with something close to panic. "Chase, are you out of your mind? We barely survived when there were what—four? Five?" He swallowed, throat tight. "Now you’re telling me there’s thirty?"

  Chase clenched his jaw. "I know how it sounds."

  "No. No, you don’t." John's breath came faster, his pulse hammering against his ribs. His hands trembled as he reached for his cigarette pack. He barely managed to light one before taking a deep drag, filling his lungs with the familiar sting of nicotine. "Fuck this." He exhaled.

  Chase's lips pressed into a thin line, his usual cocky demeanor nowhere in sight. "We don’t have a choice, John." His voice was quiet, but firm. "If you don’t show up, Carter’s going to ask questions. And it won’t take him long to figure out that we don’t actually have a ‘Thomas Greenheart’ on payroll. Then they’ll look into you, and they’ll notice that you don’t exist."

  John froze mid-inhale. He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. "And if that happens…"

  "Then they’ll realize I broke the Masquerade." Chase’s jaw tensed. "And we’ll both be in deep shit."

  John dragged a hand down his face. "So let me get this straight." His voice was eerily calm, but his fingers clenched around his cigarette like a vice. "I have to avoid a family of pissed-off werewolves and a gang of fish monsters that want me dead?"

  Chase let out a slow breath. "Yeah."

  John stared at him for a long moment, then slammed both hands onto the table with a force that rattled the dust-covered surface. "For fuck’s sake, Chase!" The sudden outburst made the werewolf flinch. "I have no combat experience. No magical weapons—aside from this piece of shit," he gestured furiously at his Spell Glove, "and no armor, unless you count a busted shielding ring that doesn’t even work! Now you expect me to charge headfirst into a fight against thirty of those things?!"

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Chase opened his mouth, but nothing came out. For the first time since John met him, he looked lost.

  "I—" Chase struggled for words before shaking his head. "I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but—"

  "No, you definitely can’t." John’s voice was sharp enough to cut. He sat back down, glaring at nothing in particular as he crushed the half-burnt cigarette into an old opaque glass. Another one was in his mouth a second later, already lit. Then, quietly, he asked, "What happens if I run?"

  Chase’s expression darkened.

  "John—"

  "No. Answer me. What happens if I disappear? If I leave and never look back?" His voice was low, but there was something dangerous underneath it.

  Chase hesitated. "You wouldn’t make it far."

  John raised an eyebrow.

  "The Enforcers are everywhere," Chase explained. "It’s not just my family. If they find out a human broke the Masquerade, they will hunt you down. And when they do…" His throat bobbed. "They’ll kill you."

  John smirked slightly, but there was no humor in it. His eyes flicked toward the corner of his vision, where his Improbability Factor counter lingered, a silent, omnipresent reminder of his unique circumstances.

  "I doubt that," he murmured under his breath.

  Chase didn't seem to hear. "As for me?" He let out a bitter chuckle. "They’ll lock me up. Maybe execute me. My family will take a hit unless they actively hunt you down." His blue eyes met John’s, deadly serious. "Believe me, you don’t want my family as your enemy."

  John shuddered, memories of werewolves staring him down flashing through his mind. The raw, primal fear of standing before something far stronger than him. A promise of a battle that couldn’t be won, no matter how many times it played out. "Maybe you’ve got a point." He sighed, rubbing his temples. "But still…"

  Chase took a step forward. "Look, I know I fucked up. I put you in this mess. But I’m not leaving you to fend for yourself." He turned, opening a metal cabinet in the corner of the room. "Here. Take this." He placed a sleek aluminum briefcase onto the table. John frowned but reached out, flipping it open. Nestled inside a foam cutout was a faceted purple gemstone, shimmering under the dim light.

  "What is this?" John asked.

  "A Credit Gem," Chase explained. "Bazaar currency. Works like a debit card."

  John picked up the gem, rolling it between his fingers. It felt oddly light, like it wasn’t entirely there. He raised an eyebrow. "‘Credits’? Really?"

  Chase smirked faintly. "Yeah, I know. The name’s dumb. But you’re gonna need it."

  John exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the crystal. His gaze flickered back to Chase, searching his face. The werewolf looked genuinely remorseful. For the first time since this whole nightmare started, John wasn’t sure if he wanted to punch him or thank him.

  “There’s one hundred and fifty thousand Credits in here,” Chase said, pushing it toward John. “That should be enough for a solid set of armor and some extras.”

  John’s fingers hovered over the gem, unsure whether to take it. “You’re just… giving me this?”

  “Yeah.” Chase reached under the table, dragging out another identical case. “And this, too.”

  A second thud. This time, when the lid flipped open, John’s breath hitched. The case was packed with neatly stacked bundles of cash—U.S. dollars. His mind stuttered at the sheer amount.

  “Jesus, Chase. How rich are you?”

  Chase smirked, but there was something tired in it, like he’d heard the question too many times. “We don’t use human money. This just sits in a corner collecting dust. Might as well be yours.” He slid the case across the table. “That’s twenty grand. Spend it however you want.”

  John let out a short, stunned laugh. “Well… thanks, I guess.” He pulled the cash-laden briefcase closer, still reeling. “Wait. Wouldn’t using a gun cause problems? I doubt mages go around packing heat, and I can’t exactly do without.”

  “I’ll just tell them you’re an air mage. Their spells sound like gunshots anyway.” Chase shrugged. “Honestly, most of the Hidden World has never even seen a gun. If anyone asks, call it a spell catalyst.”

  John squinted at him. “You’re kidding.”

  “You have no idea how out of touch we are.” Chase exhaled, rubbing his temples. “I wasn’t lying when I said that I’ll write software for my family’s business. We still do business on paper. It’s slow, inefficient, and ridiculous. I had to beg my mother for months just to let me go to college in the human world. Even then, I think she only gave in so I’d shut up about it.”

  John’s skepticism deepened. He tapped his Terminal on the table. “Come on, though. These exist, and also the HiddenNet.”

  Chase snorted. “The HiddenNet predates the Internet. Hell, it existed before computers. The fact that it looks like human tech? Pure coincidence. When smartphones first came out, the whole Hidden World panicked, thinking we had a breach in the Masquerade.”

  John barked a laugh. “That’s insane. You’re telling me this whole underground society has been running parallel to us this whole time, yet it remains completely isolated?”

  Chase smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Pretty much.” He leaned back, arms crossed. “I grew up with one foot in both worlds. A lot of the younger generation sees how useful human tech is, but the elders? Most of them are hundreds of years old. They still think humans fight wars with swords and torches.”

  John nearly choked. “Hundreds of years old? How?”

  “Mana affects biology. It varies by species, but elves and fae can live for thousands of years.” Chase hesitated, watching John carefully. “That… brings me to something else.”

  The shift in tone set John on edge. “What?”

  “I know this sounds callous, but—” Chase sighed, running a hand through his hair. “ I still can’t wrap my head around your situation, but I’ll assume that you truly gained mana and you just have to learn to use it properly. That’s the only way I can explain you seeing through Glamour. Anyways, my point was…You shouldn’t get too attached to humans now that you’re a mage.”

  John frowned. “What is that supposed to mean? Are you worried about your precious Masquerade? I can keep my mouth shut—”

  “It’s not about that.” Chase’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “John… you’re going to outlive everyone you know.”

  A cold weight settled in John’s gut.

  Chase didn’t let up. “Your friends. Your family. Every single person you’ve ever cared about? They’re going to grow old and die. And you won’t.”

  Silence.

  John’s fingers tightened around the cigarette in his hand. He turned toward a boarded window, staring at the slivers of light bleeding through. “Yeah, well… unless the Ninth Street gets me first.” His laugh was hollow. He took a long, slow drag. “So, when’s this suicide mission of yours?”

  “In two days.” Chase seized the change of subject, letting out a breath. “You should use that time wisely. Get armor, better weapons… anything that can help.”

  John mulled over that, then glanced back at Chase. “Your family has books on magic, right? Fundamentals? Basic theory?”

  Chase blinked. “I guess? But no one uses ancient tomes anymore. All that stuff’s on the HiddenNet.”

  John groaned. “You’ve completely ruined the mystique.”

  Chase chuckled but quickly sobered. “If you’re asking about our good spells, though… those are different. They’re guarded for a reason. They’re our trump cards against other families.”

  John caught the subtle tension in his voice. “Wait. You’re saying Enforcers fight each other?”

  “It happens.” Chase rubbed his face, looking suddenly exhausted. “We aren’t united at all. We enforce the same laws, but each family has their own territory and resources. The peace is… fragile.”

  John exhaled, shaking his head. “Your Hidden World is a mess.”

  “You’re telling me.” Chase pushed off the table with a sigh. “Anyway, I’d love to explain more, but—” He shot John a wry smile. “Duty calls.”

  John’s frown deepened. “You’re not going to help me buy what I need? You know way more than me.”

  Chase exhaled, shoulders sagging. “I— I really can’t.” His usual sharp confidence dulled, replaced with a hint of exhaustion. “You might not have noticed, but I’ve been keeping a heavy Glamour on us since we entered the Bazaar. We can’t risk drawing attention.” His fingers twitched slightly, as if suppressing a lingering strain. “Holding it together in the middle of a crowded shop? That’s a no-go. Not to mention, we can’t be seen together—not yet. You’re supposed to be a random mercenary mage, and our ‘partnership’ is supposed to be very unofficial.”

  John clicked his tongue, but he couldn’t argue. It made sense. Even now, the Hidden World was watching—always watching.

  Chase gave a firm nod at John’s understanding. “If you need a place to stay, you can use this safehouse. No one remembers it even exists, and I’m the only one who comes here.” He cast a glance around the dimly lit space, old wooden beams casting long shadows across the dust-covered floor. “The Bazaar’s safe, but back on Earth?” His gaze sharpened. “You need to learn Glamour. Fast. If the Ninth Street finds you, you won’t get a second chance.”

  Before John could respond, Chase turned, raising a hand in a lazy wave as he strode toward the door. “I’ll message you later.”

  Then he was gone, and the room felt suddenly, suffocatingly empty.

  John exhaled, rubbing his temples. His gaze dropped to the briefcase full of crisp bills. “Well… shit.” He let out a bitter chuckle. “Now what?” His apartment was a dead end—literally. The Ninth Street would find it sooner rather than later. The safehouse was a depressing, half-rotted hideout he could barely stand to breathe in. His fingers tapped absently against his gun holster. “The Ship?”

  A sudden, unnatural wave of euphoria crashed into his mind, warm and cloying, as if something inside him leaped at the idea. His breath caught, and he shook his head violently.

  “M-Maybe not.” His voice came out tight as he shoved the thought aside, his pulse hammering. The image of the Ship’s interior—a tomb of metal and strange, humming energies—was still too fresh. Too unnatural.

  Maybe renting some run-down place on the other side of the world wasn’t the worst idea. Distance meant nothing these days.

  John rolled his shoulders and drew his pistol, feeling the familiar weight settle in his palm. He popped out the magazine, eyeing the neatly stacked 9mm rounds. “This isn’t going to cut it,” he muttered, thumbing a bullet before sliding the mag back in. “I need something that can actually punch through armor… or shields.” His gaze flicked to his broken shielding ring. “Speaking of armor…”

  With a low sigh, he tucked the gun away, lit a fresh cigarette, and stepped back into the roaring pulse of the Bazaar. The market streets were chaos incarnate—an ever-shifting sea of cloaked figures, merchants hawking enchanted trinkets, and shops full of esoteric wonders. Yet John barely spared them a glance. His mind was still stuck on the sensation of his first death.

  He clenched his fists.

  “What if I die again?” He muttered under his breath. His fingers absently brushed over the gem in his pocket, as if half-expecting it to pulse in response. “Will I go back to the first checkpoint, or did it move?”

  His steps slowed in front of a wide storefront with enormous glass windows, displaying polished suits of armor and sleek, wand-like weapons mounted on the walls. The glowing price tags made his stomach lurch. “A million Credits?” he muttered, incredulous. he shook his head and stepped inside regardless of the prices to satisfy his growing curiosity. The store smelled like polished metal and an odd mix of ozone and oil. His gaze drifted over the racks of protective gear until something caught his eye. A sleek, curved sword rested on a stand, its handguard shaped like a coiled serpent. He reached for it, fingers hovering just above the hilt—

  “Can I help you?”

  A smooth, lilting voice startled him.

  John turned to find himself staring up at a tall woman with deep blue eyes and an almost unnatural radiance. She looked like she had walked straight out of an executive boardroom—sharp blazer, neatly tailored slacks, an air of quiet authority.

  “I—Right. Sorry.” He scratched the back of his head, trying to ignore how her glow made his skin prickle. “I’m looking for armor. Budget’s around a hundred and fifty thousand. Needs integrated Glamour, something lightweight that won’t slow me down.”

  She gave a polite nod and gestured for him to follow. “This way.”

  John’s eyes landed on two sets displayed against a pristine white wall.

  “This,” she said, indicating the first, “is our entry-level hybrid stealth model. Thin, dark mithril plating over cut-resistant fabric, with a basic shielding enchantment.” Her fingers brushed over the jacket’s sleek surface. “Lightweight, subtle. The Glamour enchantment is woven in, so it won’t draw attention.”

  John studied it. Black denim, barely-there metal plating, almost a second skin.

  Then his eyes slid to the second set.

  Unlike the first, this one was… worn. A long, dark overcoat made from a stiff, almost leathery material. Heavy-duty black jeans, reinforced with dull metal plates. Tall, rugged boots, well-worn but sturdy. It felt real. Not just a product off the shelf.

  “And this one?”

  The vendor’s nose wrinkled slightly. “A used set. The armor plating is stronger and heavier. The enchantments are also stronger but older—less efficient. Still functional, just… not as refined.”

  John barely heard her. He reached out, fingers brushing the fabric. It felt right.

  “It’s half the price,” he noted, lips quirking. “Can I try it?”

  She hesitated before nodding.

  The changing room’s mirror reflected a man who looked… different. The overcoat fit like a second skin, the metal plating shifting seamlessly with his movements. The boots grounded him. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight settle in.

  “Like a glove,” he murmured with a smirk.

  By the time he stepped back onto the showroom floor, his mind was made up.

  “I’ll take it.”

  The woman gave a slight, knowing nod.

  He grabbed the best shielding ring he could afford on the way out. Within minutes, the Credits were spent, and he was back in the chaos of the Bazaar—armor snug against his skin, new plain silver ring glinting on his finger.

  He exhaled, checking the briefcase’s weight one last time.

  His steps carried him back toward the portal, the shimmering gate pulsing like a living thing. He stared at it, stomach twisting.

  His fingers tightened around the briefcase handle.

  “I’m really doing this, aren’t I?”

  With a final breath, he stepped through.