Michael woke before the others.
The rookie center had trained that into him. Early alarms. Briefings. Movement before thought. Even here, in a house large enough that silence had corners, his body still chose morning before comfort.
For a few seconds, he lay there staring at the ceiling.
Not a dorm ceiling.
Not narrow. Not washed in weak light and institutional paint.
His.
That still felt strange.
I had owned the house before yesterday.
That was the stupid part.
The deed had my name on it. The bills came through my accounts. The security system recognized my face, my voice, my biometrics, every expensive little method rich people used to pretend walls could keep the world out.
But it had never felt this much like mine.
Maybe because owning a place and returning to it were not the same thing.
Maybe because yesterday, for the first time since gates swallowed the old version of my life, I had brought people back with me and expected them to still be here in the morning.
Michael sat up.
The room was too quiet.
Then something shifted somewhere down the hall. A soft click. A floorboard is settling. The faint drag of fabric against a doorframe.
He breathed out before he could stop himself.
Still here.
Good.
He got dressed and stepped into the hallway.
The mansion looked exactly like what it was, lived in but not settled, occupied but still rearranging itself around new people. Two duffel bags sat near the base of the stairs. One equipment case leaned against the wall outside the guest room Sora had taken. Another rested by the training room door, which probably meant Park had moved it there and then decided not to deal with it until later.
A jacket hung over the back of a dining chair.
A stack of unopened boxes waited in the living room.
Someone had left a pair of shoes too close to the front entry.
Michael stared at them for a second.
Then he kept walking.
The kitchen was too large for one person. It always had been. Wide island. Too many cabinets. Polished stone counters. A refrigerator built for a family, not a retired esports player turned hunter who had spent most of the past year pretending delivery food counted as continuity.
He started making coffee.
He had gotten used to moving through this kitchen alone.
Now he found himself listening for other footsteps.
I ignored that thought because I had a working relationship with cowardice and did not plan to ruin it before breakfast.
By the time the coffee finished, he heard movement upstairs.
Park came down first, quiet enough that even now Michael had to notice him twice. In a house with this much open space and hard flooring, it should have been impossible. Park moved the way some people breathed, efficiently, without drawing attention unless he wanted to.
He wore a plain dark shirt and training pants and looked more awake than anyone had a right to this early.
His eyes moved once over the hall, the luggage, the still-unpacked corners.
Then he looked at Michael and said, "You really live here."
Michael poured coffee into a mug.
"That is generally how housing works."
Park ignored that and walked to the large window near the living room.
Morning had only just started taking shape outside. Gray light over damp streets. Distant movement in the lower districts. The city is still half asleep and somehow never fully resting.
Sora appeared a few minutes later.
A faint trace of lavender followed her down the stairs. Her hair was slightly messier than usual, one side falling looser around her face before she tucked it back with two fingers. The sight was reassuring for reasons Michael chose not to examine too closely.
Then he saw the tablet in her other hand.
Even half awake, Kang Sora looked like someone who had been processing data in her sleep.
She stepped off the last stair, looked around the mansion again, and said, "…This is a mansion."
Michael handed her a mug before she asked.
"Yes."
She took it, blinked once at the warmth, then looked around again.
Bags near the stairs. The half-open box of kitchen supplies is near the island. Park's case by the training room door. Her own coat over the arm of the couch because she clearly had not decided where it belonged yet.
The whole place looked transitional.
Park, still by the window, said, "This house has too many rooms."
Michael leaned against the counter.
"That is technically true."
Sora turned slowly in place, taking in the ceiling height, the open second-floor balcony, the wide kitchen, and the line of sight into the library.
"This house has three floors," she said, eyebrows raised like she was waiting for him to admit something.
"It does," Michael replied.
"And a library."
"I read," he said, a little too quickly. "Gamers can have literacy."
She snorted. "And a training room."
"Obviously. You think reflexes come from sitting still and manifesting enlightenment? Esports players have to be fit. We're athletes, just indoors, caffeinated, and sometimes yelling at pixels."
She gave him a look that said he was not wrong, but she was not giving him the satisfaction.
He grinned anyway.
Park looked back over his shoulder.
"Efficient."
Michael stared at him.
"That is really the word you want."
"It is."
Sora took a sip of coffee and looked at Michael.
"You live here alone."
"Yes."
"That is still inefficient."
Michael shrugged.
"I told you. I did esports."
"That continues to sound fake when attached to this house."
"It paid well."
Park looked toward the kitchen again.
"You also said your parents have a penthouse in the U.S."
Michael nodded.
"They do."
Sora tapped the edge of the mug once with her finger.
"…Interesting."
Michael rolled his eyes.
"You really cannot stop saying that."
"No."
The silence after that was not awkward.
Just morning.
The three of them stood in a kitchen too large for them and somehow less ridiculous because of it. Park near the window. Sora is beside the island. Michael, with his back against the counter, was not measuring the distance between them and feeling something in his chest loosen by degrees.
Sora asked, more carefully than usual, "Is it really fine if we stay here?"
Michael looked up.
"What?"
She gestured around the mansion in that small, precise way of hers. The luggage. The open guest rooms. The evidence that this had become their base by informal agreement rather than ceremony.
"This," she said. "All of it."
Park added quietly, "We do not want to impose."
Michael stared at both of them.
Then he laughed.
Not because the question was stupid. It wasn't. It was just so completely them that he could not help it.
"You two are ridiculous."
Sora frowned.
"That is not an answer."
Michael set his mug down and leaned back against the counter.
"You're my companions."
He said it casually.
At least he meant to.
The word landed in the room harder than he expected.
Sora looked away first.
Park did not move much, but Michael still caught the shift in his posture.
Neither of them said anything.
Michael scratched the back of his neck.
"…Did I say something weird?"
Park answered first.
"No."
Sora added a moment later, still not looking directly at him, "It was simply more direct than I expected."
Michael frowned.
"I thought that was normal."
Sora took another slow sip of coffee.
"It was effective."
Park nodded once.
"Yes."
That somehow made it worse.
I had said companion because teammate felt too small.
Friend felt too exposed.
Party member sounded like I had lost a fight with a dungeon glossary.
Companion was practical enough to survive being spoken aloud. It meant they were with me. It meant I expected them to be with me tomorrow. It meant I had already made space in the house before asking permission from the part of myself that still believed empty rooms were safer.
Apparently, that was still a lot to say before breakfast.
Michael picked his mug up again.
"So," he said, because escape routes mattered even in kitchens, "should we go check the contract boards?"
Sora did not answer immediately.
The silence changed.
Michael noticed it before he understood it. Her mug lowered by a fraction. The stylus stopped moving between her fingers. Park's attention shifted from the window back to the counter.
Sora looked at him.
"We should return to something I have been avoiding."
Michael's hand tightened around his mug.
"That is a terrible opening."
"It is accurate."
"Still terrible."
She accepted that with a slight tilt of her head.
"Your system."
Michael looked at her.
"What about it?"
Sora set her mug down with care.
"Most hunter systems present in one of three dominant models," she said. "Stat augmentation, ability manifestation, or class-based specialization. Sometimes hybrids, but the structure remains consistent."
Michael did not interrupt.
Sora continued.
"They provide information, or they provide power. Sometimes both. But the user remains the one interpreting the field." She tapped the stylus lightly against the tablet. "The system supports decisions. It does not shape them."
Park moved away from the window.
Michael felt something tighten in his chest.
Sora looked back at him.
"That is not how you fight."
Silence.
She did not soften it.
"During the raids. During training. During the breach. You manifested equipment instantly." A small pause. "That alone is already outside standard expression. Hunters manifest abilities. Constructs. Effects. Not stored and interchangeable tools."
Michael exhaled slowly.
"…You noticed."
"Yes," she said. Then, quieter, more certain, "That part was easy."
She leaned forward slightly now.
"But that is not the anomaly."
Michael looked at her.
Sora held his gaze, unblinking.
"You do not behave like a hunter operating within a stat-ability framework," she said. "You behave like someone operating within a closed system where information is filtered, prioritized, and resolved for you in real time."
Park's brow drew in slightly.
Sora continued, voice calm but precise.
"You read lanes before they fully form. You identify pressure points before they stabilize. You reposition based on outcomes that have not yet occurred, but consistently do." She paused. "That is not instinct alone."
Michael did not move.
"Esports could explain some of it," Sora went on. "Pattern recognition. Reaction speed. Spatial awareness under pressure. High repetition environments that train predictive behavior." She shook her head once. "But that only accounts for approximation."
The stylus tapped once more.
Soft.
Measured.
"You do not approximate."
The room grew quieter.
Sora's voice lowered slightly.
"You resolve."
Michael's jaw tightened before he realized it.
Sora saw that too.
"For most hunters, the system provides variables," she said. "They still have to interpret those variables. They still have to decide under uncertainty."
She held his gaze.
"You do not appear to experience that uncertainty in the same way."
Park spoke, slower than usual.
"You think the system is doing more than providing information."
Sora nodded.
"Yes."
She did not hesitate.
"It is not only showing him the field. It is structuring it."
Michael felt that land.
Sora continued, more quietly now.
"Or at least, structuring how he perceives it."
Another pause.
"Like an interface designed to reduce complexity into something actionable. Something already familiar."
Michael let out a slow breath.
"…A game."
Sora did not react immediately.
Then she nodded once.
"Yes."
I had been waiting for someone to say it like an accusation.
Like cheating.
Like fraud.
Like I had walked into their world with borrowed hands and a translated brain, and somehow passed as a hunter because the system was doing the dirty work in a language I understood.
Sora did not say it that way.
That made it harder.
Park folded his arms.
"That would explain the consistency."
Sora added, "It would also explain why your decisions scale so cleanly across different environments. Different dungeons. Different enemy types. The underlying model remains the same."
Michael looked between them.
Neither of them looked suspicious.
That made it worse.
Sora's expression tightened slightly, not in doubt, but in focus.
"If your system were simply an ability set," she said, "I would categorize it and move on." A beat. "It is not."
Michael said nothing.
Sora leaned back slightly.
"Only mentioning that you can produce weapons would be the shallow version of the question," she said. "I am not interested in the surface behavior."
She met his eyes again.
"I am asking what your system actually is."
The old version of Michael would have made a joke.
Probably a bad one.
Something about terms and conditions. Something about not reading the tutorial. Something designed to get Sora annoyed enough to chase the joke instead of the answer.
His mouth almost did it on instinct.
Then he looked at Park.
Park was waiting. Not pressing. Not demanding. Just there, steady in a way that made retreat feel childish.
Michael looked at Sora.
Her stylus was still. Her expression was sharp, but not cruel. The question mattered to her. The answer mattered more.
He had called them companions ten minutes ago.
The word had sounded clean when it left his mouth.
This was where it became expensive.
Michael set his mug down.
"No more dodging," he said.
Sora's eyes narrowed slightly, but she said nothing.
Michael looked toward the morning city for a second, then back at them.
"My system works like a game interface."
Neither of them interrupted.
That helped.
"But not as a metaphor," he continued. "Not just visually. It behaves like one."
Park asked, "What does it show you?"
Michael lifted one hand slightly, searching for the cleanest path through it.
"Health. Armor. Ammo. Credits. Loadout. Inventory. A shop. Sometimes objective markers. Sometimes route markers. Sometimes positional cues."
Sora's gaze stayed fixed on him.
"Cues."
"Emphasis," Michael said. "Things I should be paying attention to. A lane. A sound. A direction. A target that matters more than the rest. It doesn't talk constantly. It doesn't run my body. It just makes the field easier to read."
Park's expression shifted by a fraction.
"And the crosshair."
Michael nodded once.
"Yeah. A crosshair."
"Aiming assistance," Park said.
"Basically."
Michael did not try to soften it.
"It shows up when I'm fighting."
Sora asked, quieter now, "And the weapons."
"That's the shop," Michael said. "Credits from kills. I spend them on gear. Guns, ammo, armor, equipment."
Park looked at him.
"Currency."
"Exactly."
Sora leaned back slightly.
"That explains the equipment."
Michael nodded.
Then added, because this part mattered, "I don't have stats."
That got both of their attention.
"No strength scaling. No agility boosts. No skill trees. No abilities like other hunters." He shook his head once. "Nothing like that."
Sora's eyes sharpened.
"Nothing."
"Nothing."
Michael spread one hand slightly.
"It doesn't make me stronger. It doesn't give me techniques. It doesn't give me anything you'd call a standard hunter kit."
Park said, "Then it gives you information."
"Yes."
Michael paused.
"And translation."
That word changed the room more than he expected.
Sora leaned forward slightly.
"Explain."
Michael exhaled slowly.
"You said it earlier. The system is structuring how I perceive the fight." He tapped his temple once. "I spent years reading space through a screen. Angles. Timing. Movement patterns. Predicting people before they committed. That was all in-game. The system took that and rebuilt it for real fights."
Sora's fingers tightened around the stylus.
"Adaptation," she said.
"Yeah."
Michael nodded once.
"It didn't give me new instincts. It took what I already understood and made it usable here."
Park asked, "And the accuracy."
Michael glanced at him.
"I've never fired a real gun before this."
That hung in the air.
"I've used a mouse," he continued. "That's it. No range training. No drills. No recoil practice in real space."
Sora did not blink.
"And yet," she said.
"And yet I can shoot," Michael finished.
He did not smile.
"It lines up. Sight, timing, correction. It all feels consistent. Like the system handles the gap between what I see and what I need to do."
Park's voice lowered slightly.
"So the system bridges the gap."
"Yes."
Michael nodded.
"That's the best way to put it."
Sora was very still now.
Then she said, "That explains your firing discipline."
Michael glanced at her.
"Does it."
"Yes," she said. "You do not hesitate like someone learning. You behave like someone executing a solved pattern."
That sounded about right.
I hated that it sounded right.
There was a cleaner version of myself I could have sold them. Michael Aster, strange system, unusual class, impressive tactical instincts. A little mysterious. A little annoying. Conveniently unexplained.
This version was uglier.
This version said that every clean shot, every fast read, every correct rotation through a ruined street or dungeon corridor had a machine-shaped explanation underneath it.
It did not make the choices fake.
I knew that.
I just did not know whether knowing it made me feel better.
Michael looked back at both of them.
"There's more."
Neither spoke.
So he said it.
"It helps me read the room."
The words landed more heavily this time.
Park's expression shifted first.
Sora did not move at all, but the stylus in her hand stopped completely.
Michael continued.
"Not like guessing. Not like experience. It's faster than that." He frowned slightly. "Sometimes I know where pressure is building before I can explain it. Sometimes the structure of the fight just clicks."
Sora exhaled slowly.
"That is what I meant earlier."
Michael nodded once.
"I know."
He looked down briefly, then back up.
"It's not instinct. It's not talent. It's the system taking the way I used to think in games and applying it to real space." A short pause. "That's why it feels off."
Park asked quietly, "Off."
"Yeah."
Michael's mouth shifted slightly.
"Because I'm not figuring things out the same way you are. I'm seeing them after they've already been processed."
That sat in the room.
Clean.
Uncomfortable.
True.
Sora spoke last.
"Then your system is not giving you power."
Michael looked at her.
She continued, "It is restructuring how you perceive and decide."
Michael nodded once.
"Yes."
For a few seconds, nobody said anything.
Then Park said, quieter than before, "You should have told us earlier."
Michael looked at him, expecting an accusation.
There wasn't any.
Only honesty.
Michael rubbed a hand across his jaw.
"Probably."
Sora looked down once, then back up.
"Yes," she said. "Probably."
This time, the words did not sound flat.
They sounded tired. A little hurt. More human than she usually lets herself be.
Michael caught that and looked away for a second.
"I wasn't trying to hide it from you specifically," he said. "I just…" He stopped, annoyed at himself. "It's strange. Even to me."
Sora's expression shifted by a degree.
That was enough for him to know she understood.
Park's voice stayed low.
"And you thought saying it aloud would make it worse."
Michael looked at him.
"…Yeah."
Park nodded once.
That landed more gently than reassurance would have.
Michael looked between them and let out a breath.
"When I said you were my companions, I meant it," he said. "So I'm telling you now."
Sora's grip on the mug tightened slightly.
Park did not move much, but the line of tension in his shoulders eased.
The room stayed quiet after that, but not in the same way as before.
The question was no longer sitting between them unopened.
Now it was just part of the table.
Sora was the first to move again.
She picked up the mug, though she did not drink from it yet.
"When the system appeared," she said, "most hunters treated it like a status screen because that was the simplest visible function."
Michael nodded once.
"But if the system adapts to utility, memory, and habit, then your version is not impossible. Just unusual."
Michael gave her a tired look.
"That sounds like your version of comforting me."
"It is not comfort," she said. Then, after a beat, "It is context."
That got a small laugh out of him.
Sora continued.
"A chef might become stronger through cooking. Food might gain buffs. A smith might develop growth through forging. Someone in medicine might manifest healing or restoration through treatment."
She tilted her head slightly.
"The system builds around what a person already understands deeply enough to trust."
Park spoke then.
"For something like yours to happen, strong memories would have been needed."
Michael looked at him.
Park's expression stayed even.
"And attachment."
The word landed quietly.
Park continued.
"You must have been very attached to esports."
Michael went still.
That was the problem with Park. He could say one simple thing and hit the exact place Michael had not prepared to defend.
He looked down at the counter for a second.
Then away.
The memory surfaced more easily than he wanted.
The glow of monitors in dark rooms. The weight of a headset after long practice sessions. The hum of PCs and team chatter before a match. The small, sharp joy of a flawless round. The feeling of clarity when the map loaded and the game began.
People had called it wasted time. Too much screen time. Too much obsession. Too much life spent in front of a monitor.
But it had been the happiest he had ever been.
Not because it was easy.
Because it had felt real.
He had known what he was doing, what he was chasing, and why those hours mattered.
And when that part of his life died, something in him had gone with it.
I did not notice how disconnected I had become until much later.
That was a lie.
I noticed.
I just did not have a name for what was missing, and naming it would have required admitting I had no idea how to get it back.
So when Park said attached, it felt too small.
It was attachment.
It was also grief.
Michael let out a breath.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I was."
Neither of them interrupted.
That helped more than comfort would have.
Michael looked out through the window and let the thought finish itself.
"People thought I was wasting my life behind a monitor," he said. "Maybe they were right from the outside. But it was still the happiest I had ever been."
Sora said nothing.
Park did not either.
Michael continued, voice lower now.
"When it ended, I felt disconnected from everything."
Not dramatic.
Not poetic.
Just true.
He turned back toward them.
"So if the system shaped itself around that, I guess it makes sense."
Sora nodded once.
"Yes."
Then, after a beat, she added, "That may also explain mine."
Michael looked at her.
She lifted one shoulder slightly.
"Before I awakened, I had already heard hunters explain their systems. Most of them described stats, classes, and abilities. I understood the concept before I ever had one."
Michael frowned.
"So yours formed in the version you expected."
"Possibly," she said. "Or in the version I could make useful."
She looked at the tablet resting in her hand.
"And I was not especially attached to my previous work."
Michael raised an eyebrow.
"That sounded personal."
"It was informational."
"Sure."
Park added, "Mine was probably similar."
Both of them looked at him.
He said, "Combat training. Structure. Discipline. I already understood combat as a system before awakening."
Michael nodded slowly.
"So yours defaulted into something cleaner."
"Cleaner is not the word I would use."
Sora said, "But less unusual than Michael's."
Michael gave her a flat look.
"Thank you."
She looked almost apologetic for half a second.
"I meant structurally unusual."
"That is not better."
"It is more accurate."
Michael shook his head, but the edge had gone out of it.
For a few seconds, the mansion felt quiet again.
Not empty.
Quiet.
Then Sora tapped the side of her tablet.
"There is another reason this matters."
Michael looked at her warily.
"Please don't say that in the same voice you use before ruining my morning."
"I am using my normal voice."
"That's the problem."
Park's mouth shifted slightly.
Sora ignored both of them.
"The system is not simply for showing your stats," she said. "It assists hunters. It adapts to function, mission structure, and access permissions."
Michael crossed his arms.
"Meaning?"
"You have Iron authorization now," Sora said. "You should be able to access contract listings without going back to the center."
Michael stared at her.
"…Through my system."
"Yes."
He looked at Park.
Park nodded once.
"The contract board is part of the same network."
Michael frowned.
"Then why does the rookie center have a contract board room?"
Park answered without hesitation.
"Control."
Michael raised an eyebrow.
Park continued.
"The system distributes listings automatically. But organizations still want influence over what hunters see, what they prioritize, and how quickly they accept."
Michael understood immediately.
"So the rookie center board filters assignments."
"Yes."
"Guilds influence availability."
"Yes."
"The Association monitors who takes what."
Park nodded once.
"Yes."
Sora added, "The board at the center is curated. Smaller. Safer-looking. Easier to supervise."
Michael leaned back against the counter.
"The real market is larger."
"Yes," Sora said.
Then she added, "And there is an actual market layer."
Michael looked at her.
"A what?"
"Trade," she said. "Dungeon materials. Equipment. Consumables. Crafted goods. Restricted support tools. Mostly legal if you stay inside Association-cleared channels."
"Mostly," Michael repeated.
Sora gave him a look.
"Hunters are involved."
Fair.
Park said, "Guilds use it heavily."
Sora nodded. "Independent hunters do too, though on a smaller scale."
Michael looked at the tablet projection as Sora unfolded a small menu above it.
Filters. Item tags. District exchanges. Material listings. Controlled access flags.
Some of it looked almost normal, like an online marketplace for dangerous people.
Some of it looked like a hidden economy built under the city while everyone else was busy pretending gates were only a combat problem.
The world had not only gained monsters.
It had gained infrastructure around monsters.
That was worse.
Monsters were honest. Usually, they wanted to kill you, eat you, tear through the wrong wall, or defend whatever strange logic a dungeon had built around them.
Markets lied politely.
Contracts lied in clean fonts.
Systems lied by pretending the information they showed you was the same thing as the information you needed.
Michael looked at Sora.
"You were saving this until after the emotional autopsy?"
"I was waiting until you understood why your system could access it."
"That was a choice."
"Yes."
"Annoying."
"Also yes."
Michael sighed.
"Fine. How do I open it?"
Sora set the projection aside.
"Focus on the command layer."
"That sounds fake."
"It is not."
"It sounds fake."
"Michael."
"Fine."
He closed his eyes for a moment.
Menu.
The familiar interface appeared.
Loadout.
Inventory.
Shop.
Then something new beneath the usual options.
Contract Network
Access Available
Beside it, another line waited.
Market Access
Limited Tier
Michael's eyes opened slowly.
"…Oh."
Park watched his face.
"You see it."
"Yeah."
He opened the contract network first.
The interface expanded wider than anything he had seen at the rookie center.
Contracts flooded the display, overlapping in columns.
City defense jobs.
Gate exploration.
Private corporate requests.
Association missions.
Industrial recovery.
Escort details.
Infrastructure stabilization.
Partial suppression.
Emergency response.
Hundreds.
Maybe more.
He opened the market next.
That was worse.
Dungeon materials listed by district and rarity. System-tagged gear with fluctuating prices. Support consumables. Trade restrictions. Guild-restricted supply chains. Independent seller boards. Association-cleared postings.
It looked like someone had fused a mission board, a weapons exchange, and a city economy into one constantly moving layer of filtered risk.
Michael stared.
"The world just got bigger."
Sora stepped closer to his side, looking over his shoulder.
"Yes."
Park moved to the other side.
Michael scrolled once.
Then again.
The listings kept going.
Some paid well, while others looked suspicious. A few had hazard flags, and some seemed like obvious traps.
He frowned.
"This is a mess."
Sora nodded.
"Yes."
Park said calmly, "That is why judgment matters."
Michael glanced at him.
"You are enjoying this."
Park considered it.
"Yes."
Michael laughed softly.
Of course he was.
Now that he understood the system a little more, the board felt even bigger.
Not because the city had changed.
Because he finally saw how deeply everything connected.
Hunters were not just fighters.
They were part of an entire structure.
Contracts.
Markets.
Territory.
Supply.
Politics.
Identity.
And somewhere inside that mess, his system had decided to turn him into a shooter because that was the shape of the thing he had loved most before the world broke open.
Park looked from the floating listings to Michael.
"So the board is real."
Michael snorted softly.
"Yes. Very real."
Sora nodded.
"And now you know how large the field actually is."
Michael stared out at the contract and market network for another few seconds.
Then let out a quiet breath.
"This really is a mess."
Sora nodded once.
"Yes."
Park looked toward the windows, toward the city waiting beyond them.
"Then we decide what matters."
Michael glanced at him.
The sentence settled cleanly. Not rushed. Not casual.
The contracts could wait one day. For now, it was enough to understand the shape of things: the house, the system, the market, the board, and the strange, quiet fact that the three of them were here at the start of it together.
I had spent a month surviving whatever the center handed me. Now the list was open. Now the market was open. Now the house was full enough that silence had stopped sounding like a verdict.
Michael looked at Park's sword case by the training room door, then at Sora's tablet on his counter, already connected to his network as it had always intended to take over.
He almost complained.
He didn't.
Outside, Seoul kept waking.
Inside, the coffee cooled, the contract network waited, and for the first time in a long while, Michael did not feel like the next thing had to arrive before he knew where he was standing.