As Shane [Blinked] down to street level, he materialized in the shadows of a narrow alleyway wedged between two towering housing blocks.

  From down here, he could almost taste the smell of wet concrete and old trash. He stepped out onto the cracked pavement, his boots crunching on broken glass and discarded fast-food wrappers.

  Around him, Brownsville felt less like a neighborhood and more like a cage. The red-brick towers loomed overhead, their windows staring down with hundreds of dark, hollow eyes.

  Shane tried to shake off the feeling of being watched, knowing those houses were deserted after the evacuation alert.

  Or, should be.

  There were no manicured hedges or sleek glass facades here. Just chain-link fences topped with rusted razor wire and patchy grass that had long surrendered to the dirt.

  Shane felt a twisted sense of comfort. As if he was back home.

  Dozens of hunters were huddled near the entrance to the collapsed service yard.

  They were a sorry sight.

  Unlike the polished professionals you saw on the news, clad in sponsor-branded mithril armor, these were the working poor of the Awakened world.

  E-ranks and D-ranks whose primary job was a porter for higher-ranked hunters in dungeons. People who had registered as hunters for the tax breaks and the subsidized health insurance and the loot cut they’d receive.

  And the bill for those benefits had come due.

  “I’m telling you, we should bolt,” a guy in a stained jacket hissed, gripping a sword. “The perimeter is three blocks out. We could slip through the subway tunnels and mix in with the civilians.”

  “And then what?” a woman next to him snapped. “If we desert a draft order, our licenses would get revoked. I have a mortgage, David.”

  “You won’t have a mortgage if you’re dead!”

  The police barricades set up blocks away weren’t there to protect them; they were there to contain the spillover. The strategy was obvious.

  Let the monsters chew on Brownsville until the real heroes could fly back from Tokyo.

  Shane’s eyes darted across the sea of nervous faces, his gaze lingering just long enough to pull up the floating white text that only he could see.

  He started scoping out their stats and skills one by one, hunting for the best group. The guild name didn’t matter as much as the people in it.

  A decent tank. God, he’d kill for a decent tank right about now.

  As Shane stepped into the light, someone whispered.

  “Heads up. Another one.”

  Faces turned, and eyes scanned him, searching for a guild patch or a high-tier weapon. When they saw the lack of expensive artifacts, the hope in their stares died instantly.

  “Great,” the swordsman scoffed, spitting on the asphalt. “Another solo. That makes, what? Sixteen of us? Against an A-rank breach? We might as well start digging our own graves.”

  The atmosphere was thick with resentment—the specific, bitter anger of people who knew they were being sacrificed for the greater good of Manhattan real estate.

  Then, the sound of an engine roaring down the empty street shattered the gloom.

  A heavy-duty SUV, black and armored like a tank, hopped the curb at the end of the block.

  It tore through a row of plastic garbage cans, sending trash flying, before screeching to a halt right next to the group.

  “Is that...?” A woman held her bow close to her chest, squinting. “The Wynn Guild?”

  The logo on the hood—a stylized ‘W’—gleamed even in the dim morning light.

  Shane stiffened.

  Oh, shit.

  The back door flew open.

  ...And Josh Miller stumbled out of the seat. The HR manager looked like he was about to have a coronary, his suit rumpled and his face slick with sweat.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  His frantic eyes swept the group, locking onto Shane before he could weave into the crowd and hide.

  The man broke into a wide, relieved grin as if he’d just found water in a desert.

  “Hunter Ashwell!” Josh bellowed, ignoring the confused stares of the other hunters as he jogged over.

  Behind him followed a small cluster of hunters, those that Shane had met at the event dungeon, looking equally hopeful.

  What the—

  Shane had no clue why they looked so thrilled to see him. He’d ghosted the obvious recruitment and dinner invites and ditched them from the dungeon. They should be pissed.

  “Thank god you’re here! We’re saved!” Josh clapped him on the shoulder.

  Oh, right. They thought he was an S-rank.

  [Behavior Lock] suppressed his grimace, seizing control of his facial muscles, and smoothed the panic into a mask of bored, stoic indifference.

  He wasn’t the guy they should be counting on.

  Honestly, he’d been hoping to count on them.

  “Hunter Miller,” Shane said, picking his words carefully so that the [Behavior Lock] wouldn’t interfere. “Don’t expect miracles today.”

  “Of course! Who needs a miracle when we have you?” Josh said, clapping him on the back.

  A vein throbbed on Shane’s forehead.

  He clearly didn’t get the message.

  Josh continued.

  “Honestly, I have to admit, even I was panicked for a second when I saw that System notice. But look at us! Must be fate, right?”

  Fate hates me.

  Shane resigned himself to the situation. Since they seemed to have decided to push away their irritation toward him to raise their survival rates, then he would gladly use them, too.

  “Ashwell?” the swordsman whispered, straightening up. “Wait, is he famous?”

  “I think I heard that name somewhere.”

  Thanks to Josh, their eyes were filled with desperate hunger. That Shane might be the messiah that could get them back home to their families tonight.

  The expectations settled on his shoulders like a lead vest.

  God, they shouldn’t be putting all their faith into Shane and relaxing now. He was a fucking F-rank.

  Fortunately, Josh’s party looked solid. A classic, well-balanced lineup.

  If you could overlook their low ranks.

  C-rank. C-rank. C-rank. Shit, this one’s a D-rank.

  “Ah, right, introductions,” Josh said, steppping aside to reveal a young man who had been lurking in the shadow of the group. “This is our new rookie, Kit McKay. Kit, this is Hunter Ashwell.”

  Kit... looked liked he’d walked out of a moody cologne commercial.

  He had slicked-back black hair, hands shoved deep into the pockets of an expensive-looking windbreaker, and a pair of wireless earbuds firmly in place.

  Shane wasn’t sure if he even heard a single word.

  Kit offered a microscopic nod, not even taking his hands out of his pockets.

  Josh coughed, a strained smile stretching across his face to cover the awkwardness.

  “He’s uh, introverted. A bit shy.”

  Shane didn’t care. He had no time for small talk anyway; he could just check Kit’s status window to see if he was worth using.

  But the lack of a lecture seemed to surprise the guy.

  Caught off guard, Kit blinked, realizing Shane wasn’t going to demand he take the earbuds out or shake hands. the tension in his shoulders dropped, he looked at Shane with a sudden spark of curiosity. Evidently, for some reason, being treated like a piece of furniture was his preferred mode of interaction.

  Kit pulled one earbud out.

  “Hey.”

  It was a small peace offering.

  ...And then the earbud went right back in.

  Shane watched as Kit tapped his foot, seemingly bobbing his head to a beat, completely detached from the A-rank apocalypse ticking down less than fifty yards away.

  Shane soon found out the reason for the attitude problem.

  A look at his status window confirmed he was an A-rank.

  The only one in Josh’s party of C-rank nobodies.

  No wonder the guy was confident and relaxed. He’d probably survive if push came to shove and everyone had to abandon post and just run away.

  Okay, at least one guy is use— shit.

  Shane’s eyes drifted below the name and rank.

  [Age: 16]

  He was a minor.

  Shane suppressed a groan. The kid was barely a high schooler. Judging from the age and the pristine condition of his gear, he probably awakened last Tuesday.

  In other words, a total amateur.

  He checked the System message again.

  [If raid capacity is exceeded, higher-rank hunters may forcibly eject lower-rank hunters from the registry and take their slot.]

  He frantically scanned the surrounding crowd again.

  Was there anyone, anyone, who could boot this kid?

  Since the kid was an A-rank, only S-ranks could take his slot.

  Maybe, by some miracle, the teleportation portal could open in twenty minutes instead of two hours and the S-ranks would return in time.

  [Time until Breach: 00:28:43]

  As the countdown hit less than thirty minutes, the street was still depressingly void of any real heroes.

  Shane looked over the collection of liabilities he had somehow voluntarily taken on. He suppressed a sigh.

  Looks like I’m going to have to throw my own body on the line.

  “I-I’m sorry I’m late, sir!”

  A heavy thudding of boots drew their attention.

  Another Wynn Guild member came skidding to a halt near the group, gasping for air.

  The B-rank tank, Henry Stone wheezed, bending over with his hands on his knees.

  Sweat dripped from his chin, but his face was ashen white that had nothing to do with the running. He seemed surprised to see Shane here, but his wide eyes locked onto the fissures and cracks in the air that was continuing to grow.

  A B-rank tank.

  He was the guy that had irked Shane by bringing up the issue of how he broke the curse trap in the event dungeon.

  And a potential S-rank who was only holding back his own power because of, well, emotions while Shane was working his tail off just to survive the week.

  And, most importantly, he was a threat to humanity—according to the future Shane knew—destined to make a deal with the Seraphim and mutate into an SS-rank monster.

  Shane stared at the panting man. A slow calculation clicked into place in his mind.

  He needed a tank. And here was a future super-villain.

  Okay, Shane thought, the corner of his lip twitching upward just a fraction that his [Behavior Lock] would allow. Change of plans.

  He wouldn’t be throwing his own body on the line today.

  He’d throw Henry’s.