The sun hadn’t even risen properly, but Jace was already wide awake. Thoughts of Victor’s world swirled in his head—dark alleys, criminal deals, danger, violence… and money. More than the measly scraps he got at the supermarket.

  And honestly? Fighting thugs beat mopping floors.

  He hadn’t quit the day job yet—hadn’t written that two weeks’ notice—but that could wait. He needed to see if this path was worth it.

  In Riley’s apartment, mechanical whirring filled the air as tiny arms flipped eggs and poured juice. Jace stepped into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  “I’m gonna be working for Victor a bit,” he said, casually sliding into a chair.

  Riley looked up mid-bite. She froze.

  Then swallowed—too fast. She choked, and Jace scrambled to help her.

  A few smacks on the back later, she finally coughed it out. “Damn it, warn a girl first.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  She sighed, brushing stray hair out of her face. “Y’know… I always figured you’d end up working for Victor. But…” She hesitated—then didn’t stop him. “Just be careful, alright?”

  It caught him off guard. That warmth in her voice—it wasn’t sarcasm, or tough love. It was genuine. His chest tightened with something unfamiliar.

  He didn’t say anything. Just nodded, smiling faintly, and walked out the door.

  Elsewhere, far from the slums…

  Celeste’s heels echoed like gunshots on marble floors as she stormed into her father’s study.

  “Father,” she snapped, “what’s taking so long? You promised those policy changes months ago.”

  Governor Harrow didn’t even look up from his datapad. His voice was low and simmering. “Politics isn’t a game for brats.”

  His gaze finally rose—cold, sharp enough to cut. “Be the symbol you were born to be. Smile for the cameras. Train. Stay out of real matters.”

  Celeste’s fists clenched. “But the powerless are dying. We’re closer to genocide by negligence every day—”

  “Exactly.” His tone dropped to a hiss. “And you still think this world needs saving?”

  Celeste’s voice caught in her throat. “…Yes, Father.”

  “If it ain't broke don't fix it, the powerless are going to be gone even without our interference.”

  Back in the slums…

  Victor’s den smelled of rust, ash, and power. Jace stood before the slumlord, trying not to fidget.

  “I’ve got a job for you,” Victor said, flicking a cigarette ash to the floor. “Simple deal. Sell these. No screwups.”

  Jace stared at the bag of vials. “Drugs?”

  Victor grinned. “Welcome to the family, kid.”

  Hours later, Jace waited outside a crumbling tenement. Paint peeled from the walls, rats scurried in the gutters.

  Then the buyer arrived.

  A wiry man with sunken eyes and a tongue far too long to be normal.

  “You the new kid?” he sneered. “Gimme my rocks.”

  “Show me the money first,” Jace replied coolly.

  The man flashed a bag of cash—but Jace’s instincts flared. “Let me count it.”

  “No time for that.” The buyer lunged.

  A fist flew at Jace’s face—fast, hard. He blocked, pain shooting up his arm. Light-tier buff. Worse, the guy’s arms stretched, snapping like whips from ten meters away.

  Jace dodged, ducked, calculated.

  Elongation power. Light-tier buff. Can’t beat him from range.

  He charged in, zig-zagging between blows. Got close. Landed a hit—finally.

  But it was a trap.

  The man snapped his arms back in an instant and clocked Jace across the jaw.

  Again. And again. It became a cruel rhythm—Jace got in close, got punished for it.

  Blood dripped from his chin. His vision blurred.

  But he didn’t stop.

  He couldn’t stop.

  Every time he got hit, he moved smarter. Every time he fell, he stood faster. Until finally—he caught the timing. Slipped a punch. Landed a brutal elbow to the man’s throat.

  The buyer gasped, stumbled—

  —and Jace finished it.

  He stood there, bloodied, shaking, victorious.

  Victor chuckled when Jace returned.

  “You look like hell, kid.”

  Jace dropped the bag of drugs on the table. “Got jumped. Still made the sale.”

  Victor lit a fresh cigarette. “Powerless brat, huh? Not bad. Keep this up, and you might be more useful than half my crew.”

  Jace didn’t smile.

  He just nodded, already thinking about the next fight.

  He limped back to Riley’s place long after sunset. Blood caked his shirt. Dirt streaked his face. One eye was swelling shut.

  The door creaked as he stepped inside.

  Riley glanced at him from her workbench. Sparks flew. Wrenches clinked. The whir of some half-built machine filled the silence.

  She looked at him. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. Didn’t ask.

  “Dinner’s in the microwave,” she said flatly, tightening a bolt.

  Not a single word about his wounds.

  It was weirdly comforting.

  He kicked off his shoes and collapsed on the couch.

  Just as his eyes started to close—

  Ding-dong.

  The doorbell rang.

  Should I make longer chapters or is this fine?