He wanted to say he was still her son, that nothing had changed. But that was another lie, and the taste of it mixed with the metallic reek of the flat. "I'm not running," he said, softer. "I just want to make things better."
She picked up the bag and set it back in front of him, keeping only a single bill. "I'll use this for groceries and to pay the landlord a week early. The rest you keep." Her hand covered his for a second, cold and dry.
She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she looked ten years older. "Promise me you're not doing something you can't take back, James."
He thought about the floorboard, the hidden envelope, the deal with O'Shea, the thing he'd already done in the woods on Floor 1. He thought about the way it felt to watch Hyun-Woo go down and not even flinch, about standing in a room with men who could buy and sell entire city blocks, about how easy it was to hide things from the people who loved you.
He thought about the next Floor, and the one after that, and the person he would be when he got there.
"I promise," he said.
His mother pressed her lips together. She looked at him, really looked, and the silence stretched between them until James thought it would never end.
"I don't recognize you anymore," she whispered. Then she stood up, poured her tea into the sink, and left the room.
James sat at the table, his hands wrapped around the mug, the sandwich bag of money sitting untouched in front of him. The flat smelled of damp and old onions, the mildew on the windowsill, and something else that was neither clean nor unclean—just different, a new thing that had never belonged here.
He finished his tea in silence. Then he went to his room, lay down on the bed, and stared at the water stains on the ceiling. He listened to his mother move around the flat, the way she turned off lights as if they couldn't afford the bill. He closed his eyes and counted seconds until the sounds stopped.
He drifted in and out of sleep, dreaming of the Tower, of bones rising from the dirt, of a city smothered under grey fog. He dreamed of his mother's voice, calling to him from behind a locked door.
He woke up before dawn, the flat colder than usual, the world outside silent as death. He checked the floorboard to make sure the money was still there. Then he showered, dressed, and sat by the window until the city started to wake up.
He put the rest of the bills in his backpack and zipped it shut.
He didn't know if he'd come back the same next time.
He caught the tram across the river, then a local shuttle to the north side, where the mid-tier Challenger district stacked up against the old industrial flats like a row of titanium teeth. The new apartments had numbers instead of names—Unit 18, Block 3, Northgate. Each block came with its own set of security checkpoints and an automated concierge system. Nobody asked who you were, only if your credentials matched the database.
James toured five units before he settled on the one facing away from the street, third floor, with a balcony and a reinforced entry door. The place was smaller than he'd expected for the price, but it had an actual bathroom with a tub, a kitchen with working appliances, and a bed that didn't creak when you moved.
The agent was a woman with perfect hair and a voice like a phone operator, cheerful in a way that only made sense if you'd never been poor. She showed him the biometric locks, the privacy glass, the soundproofing panels. He said "good," "fine," or "yeah" in response to each feature. When she got to the section about emergency services and secure package drop, he nodded and gave her his Challenger ID.
She slid his card through a scanner. The screen blinked when it read NECROMANCER (LEGENDARY), but her face didn't change. She handed it back and said, "That will be first and last month's rent up front, plus a five hundred credit deposit for damages."
James paid six months in advance, then took the key and waited for her to leave before opening the door. The lock buzzed and disengaged with a soft hiss.
Inside, the flat was perfectly sterile. The air didn't smell like anything. He opened the sliding closet and set his backpack inside, then unzipped it and counted the bands of cash just to be sure. He ran his thumb over the ten-thousand-dollar bundles and let himself feel nothing for exactly three seconds. Then he put the cash at the back, under a pair of jeans, and shut the door.
He checked the corners of the flat for cameras, finding none, then tested the privacy glass by darkening every window. The city view snapped off like a monitor. He walked the perimeter twice, checking for weaknesses, then set up a second hiding spot under the bathroom sink for the ring and any gear he didn't want seen.
He unpacked the rest of his things—a spare shirt, the charger for his laptop, a notebook with three pages of actual notes and the rest torn out. He left the phone plugged in on the counter and let the new address buzz through his bones.
Next: gear.
The Challenger shop was two blocks down, between a ramen place and a vape bar. Unlike the ones back home, this shop kept its windows opaque and its security on a ten-second response timer. When he walked in, a girl in body armor the color of old paper gave him a silent nod and then ignored him.
The man behind the counter wore a mechanic's coverall and had a barcode tattooed down his forearm. He didn't look up from his tablet until James dropped his old iron sword and wooden shield on the counter.
"Floor 1 special, huh?" the man said, eyeing the wear on the blade. "Looking to upgrade or just offload?"
"Upgrade. Need a one-handed sword, C-rank or better, nothing flashy. Shield, too, but lighter than this. And armor. Not cloth."
The man set the tablet down. "Class?"
James handed over his ID again.
The man scanned it, and his eyes tracked the screen for a long second. "Legendary Necromancer," he read. "You're the kid with the wolf stack, right? Saw the after-action report on Tower Tactics."
James said nothing.
The man grinned, sharp and dry. "Relax. I don't sell out my clients. You want something that channels necrotic energy. Good. You ever use obsidian?"
James shook his head.
The man ducked behind the counter and pulled out a sword with a blackened blade and a grip wrapped in white synthetic leather. The blade was edged in obsidian, with a spine of what looked like steel. "We only got this in yesterday. C-rank, reinforced core, obsidian. Hits like an E but the effects scale with class. Won't chip on bone, won't stick in heavy muscle. Yours for two fifty."
James balanced the weapon in his hand. The weight was almost identical to the iron, but the point felt like it wanted to move forward on its own. He ran his thumb along the flat. The obsidian didn't cut, but it sucked light into itself in a way that made him uneasy.
He set it down. "Shield?"
"Don't bother with wood past Floor 1," the man said, pulling out a half-moon of black polymer. "Fifty credits. Carbon. Takes a hit, resets itself. Not made for tanking, but you can block a direct strike if you time it."
James bought it.
"Armor?" the man asked, watching him now. "You want light or full?"
James hesitated. "Light, but with bone plates. No mobility loss."
The man nodded, like he'd already guessed. "Got a THING set in back. One sixty for D-rank, or three hundred if you want C with the full THING."
"Three hundred," James said, and the man's grin flashed again.
He ran the numbers in his head. Sword: 250. Shield: 50. Armor: 300. Total, 600 Tower Credits. He still had over thousands left after.
He took the gear to a back room with a changing bench. The new armor looked like a regular leather jacket from a distance, but on the inside, a lattice of bleached bone plates ran down the ribs and spine. The sword fit in a scabbard that hugged his back, the shield strapped flat against the pack. Everything locked in with quick snaps, not buckles or ties.
He looked in the mirror and for the first time, he didn't see the boy from the flat. He saw the thing from Floor 1: the one who'd watched a man get eaten alive and felt nothing. The necromancer, minus the hood and cloak. He flexed his hand and the glove tightened along his fingers, no slop or drag.
He returned to the counter. The man scanned everything, then ran his thumbprint for the total.
"Anything else?" the man asked.
James shook his head.
"Don't get killed," the man said, and for a second it sounded like an actual wish.
James left the shop and walked back to the flat. He used the balcony door this time, then sat on the edge of the bed and laid out all the new gear in front of him. He ran a finger along the bone plates, then checked the shield's interior for defects. He tested the draw of the sword ten times, watching the blade flick in and out of the scabbard with no hesitation.
He ran his System diagnostics and watched as each piece auto-registered in his inventory:
[OBSIDIAN EDGE SWORD (C)]
[+20 PHYSICAL DAMAGE | DURABILITY: 180/180]
[REINFORCED LEATHER (C)]
[+35 DEFENSE | +15 HP | PLATES: +10% DAMAGE ABSORPTION VS PHYSICAL]
[CARBON SHIELD (E)]
[+8 DEFENSE | AUTO-RESET | DURABILITY: 120/120]