[POV: Silas (Void Hub)]
The door had no handle.
Silas stood in front of the smooth white surface, fingers hovering an inch from the panel beside it. R-7794. His room. The one place in this entire facility where nothing could touch him. The Citadel had guaranteed his safety in that same transactional tone it used for everything else.
I could stay.
The thought was tempting. Three days, the Citadel had said. Three days before he'd be back in Seattle, back in the apartment with the leaky ceiling and the gym where nobody knew his name. He could spend those three days here, in this white box, staring at a ceiling that glowed like fresh bone.
Three days. Then I'm back in Seattle with nothing learned.
No
Forward. Always forward.
He pressed his palm to the panel. The door slid open without sound, revealing a corridor of dark stone and metal grating. The air was cooler here, tinged with ozone and something metallic, like the aftertaste of lightning. Light bled up through the grating beneath his feet, casting strange shadows on the walls.
The door slid shut behind him. No handle on this side either.
No handle on this side. Message received.
The corridor stretched in both directions, lined with identical doors. R-7795. R-7796. Each one sealed, each one silent. Other contractors lived behind those doors. People who had survived their first mission, their second, their tenth. People who knew things Silas didn't.
A figure passed him moving the other way. Tall, armored, face hidden behind a helmet that looked like it had been forged from something's skull. The figure didn't slow down. Didn't look at him. Just walked past like Silas was furniture.
Invisible. Good. Invisible means not worth killing.
Another door opened ahead. A woman stepped out. Scarred, one-armed, a blade strapped to her back that was longer than Silas was tall. Her eyes flicked over him for half a second, then she walked on.
Everyone here probably survived something worse than Thaloria, worse than Varis Calder.
I'm the rookie. The fresh meat.
He kept walking. Counted doors. Memorized the layout. Twenty doors per corridor section. Stairs at the end, spiraling down. Signs in scripts he couldn't read, and one in something that looked almost like English: MAIN CONCOURSE →.
He followed the arrow.
The atrium hit him like a wall.
Noise first—a roar of voices, metal, movement. Then the scale. The corridor opened onto a space that stretched in every direction, levels stacked above and below him, connected by bridges and walkways and stairs that spiraled along the edges like exposed ribs. The ceiling was too high to see clearly, lost in a haze of artificial light that glowed without any visible source.
This is the Void Hub.
This is where everyone goes between missions.
The crowd was dense. Shoulder-to-shoulder in the main thoroughfares, thinning toward the edges. Bodies of every shape. Human and not-human, armored and robed, scarred and mutated.
He saw a man with three arms haggling at a stall. A woman with skin like bark, leaves growing from her scalp. Something that might have been a child, if children had eyes that glowed green and smiles full of needle teeth.
The smell hit next. Fried meat and unfamiliar spices. Sweat. Metal. Ozone. Something rotting, somewhere. Everything layered on everything else, overwhelming in a way that made his sinuses ache.
Find a wall. Read the signs. Don't get pickpocketed.
He stepped into the flow.
It was a mistake.
The crowd was a current, and he had no idea which way it was going. A shoulder clipped his. An elbow caught his ribs. Something brushed his belt. Fingers, quick and practiced. He slapped his hand down just in time to feel the pickpocket's touch retreating.
Going to get robbed. Stabbed. Lost.
Panic spiked. His heart hammered against his ribs. The noise was too loud, the bodies too close, the smells too—
There. Pillar.
He spotted it through a gap in the crowd. A stone column rising from the floor, carved with symbols and what looked like a map. He shouldered his way toward it, ignoring the curses in languages he didn't understand, and pressed his back against the cold stone.
The pillar was solid. Real. The first stable surface since his room.
From this angle, he could read the map. Zones labeled in that almost-English script: Market Ring. Arena Complex. Attribute Enhancement Hall. Mess Hall.
Mess Hall. Food. Haven't eaten since before Varis.
He checked his assets. Hand on the Shank's handle. Still there, still solid, the leather grip familiar against his palm. The Wayfinder was a weight in his pocket, dormant and cold. And somewhere in the Citadel's storage—
The Iron Dagger.
The thought surfaced. His first weapon. The one he'd taken from the cabin table on that swaying coffin of a ship, Thaloria's ocean churning beneath him. The start of everything.
He focused, and the Citadel responded.
[2,660 Void Coins]
The number floated at the edge of his vision.
I'm armed. I'm healed. I'm not broke.
I'm not helpless. I'm just ignorant.
Ignorance is fixable. Death isn't.
"First time out of your room, kid?"
The voice cut through the noise. Conversational, amused, warm in a way that nothing else in this place had been. Silas's hand tightened on the Shank before he turned.
A woman stood a few feet away, watching him with eyes that crinkled at the corners.
Sturdy build, maybe thirty-five, maybe forty. Hard to tell in a place like this.
She wore a flour-dusted apron over a faded brown tunic and dark trousers. Practical clothes, worn soft from use. Fabric sacks bulged with supplies in both hands. Her fingers were quick, always moving, wiping at her apron, adjusting the sacks, gesturing as she spoke.
"Obvious, huh?" Silas said.
"Standing at the pillar with your back to the wall, hand on a knife, looking like someone just threw you off a cliff?" She smiled. "Little bit."
He didn't relax. "What do you want?"
"Just finished my shopping." She lifted one of the sacks. "Supplies for the restaurant. I run a place down in the back rows—name's Lyra. Employee, not Contractor." She said it like it was supposed to mean something. "Means I'm not here to hurt you."
Employee. Not Contractor.
There's a difference.
His stomach chose that moment to growl. Loud enough to be audible over the crowd.
Lyra laughed. It was a genuine sound, not how one would mock another. "Tell you what. Ten coins, and I'll save you three days of figuring out what will kill you versus what won't." She tilted her head. "But food first. My place has real meals, not paste. Costs more, tastes better."
Ten coins. Cheap, if she's not lying.
She could be leading me into a trap.
But she said she's an employee. Non-combatant. And I need to eat.
Do I trust her words?
Silas thought for an instant, then nodded.
"Lead the way," he said.
Lyra moved through the crowd with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times. She took a different route than the main flow. Side alleys, narrower passages, levels that spiraled downward. The crowd thinned. The noise faded. His own footsteps echoed on stone.
"Mess Hall's fine if you want paste," Lyra said over her shoulder, not slowing. "Standard Citadel nutrition. Keeps you alive, tastes like cardboard mixed with regret. I tried it once. Never again."
"And your place?"
"Real food. Spices I import from derivative worlds. Vegetables that were actually grown in dirt, can you imagine?" She laughed again. "Costs more. Way more. But once you've tasted actual food in this place, paste starts to feel like punishment."
Silas noted the route. Three turns. One level down. Narrow alley. Signs in scripts he couldn't read. The walls closed in. The light dimmed.
Three turns. One level down. Narrow alley.
Too remote.
His hand drifted back to the Shank. The grip was warm from his earlier hold. The blade was eight inches of poison-tipped steel, and if this woman was leading him into a trap—
If she plans to rob me, this could be the perfect spot.
Hand on the dagger. Just in case.
"Not far now," Lyra said.
The alley opened into a small plaza. Quiet. Almost deserted. A handful of structures lined the edges—a shuttered shop, something that might have been a forge, and a building with smoke curling from a chimney that smelled like roasting meat and fresh bread.
Lyra pointed. "There. That's mine."
The tension bled out of Silas's shoulders. The restaurant, if you could call it that, was small. Worn. The kind of place that survived on regulars, not foot traffic. A sign hung over the door, hand-painted in that almost-English script: LYRA'S.
Not a trap.
Just a restaurant nobody knows about.
Paranoid for nothing.
But he kept his hand near his weapon as he followed her inside.
The interior smelled like home.
Not his home. Not the Seattle apartment with its damp walls and the neighbor's cigarette smoke bleeding through the vents. But someone's home. Roasting meat. Fresh bread. Herbs he couldn't name but recognized on some primal level as food, real food, the kind that came from dirt and sunlight and someone who gave a damn.
When did I last eat something that wasn't Thalorian eel?
The restaurant was small. Eight tables, maybe ten if you squeezed. Mismatched chairs. A long counter separating the dining area from a kitchen that looked like it had been cobbled together from three different worlds. Copper pots hung from hooks. Something bubbled in a clay pot. A loaf of bread sat cooling on a wire rack.
Lyra set her supply sacks on the counter and gestured to a stool. "Sit, rookie. I'll get you something that won't taste like processed guilt."
Silas sat. The stool creaked under him. Solid wood, worn smooth by years of use.
Three other customers. Two at a corner table, armored, eating in silence. One at the far end of the counter, hooded, nursing a drink.
He catalogued them automatically. None looked up. None cared.
"Here." Lyra slid a wooden bowl across the counter. Steam rose from it, some kind of stew, thick with chunks of meat and vegetables he didn't recognize. A heel of bread sat beside it. "Fifteen coins. Worth every one."
[Incoming Trade Request]
[From: Hub Staff #30847]
[Offering: Hearty Meal]
[Requesting: 15 Void Coins]
[Accept / Reject]
Fifteen coins for real food. Either a steal or highway robbery. I'll know after the first bite.
He accepted.
[Transaction complete. Balance: 2,645 Void Coins.]
He picked up the spoon.
The first bite was almost painful. Rich. Savory. Actual texture, actual flavor, actual substance. His stomach clenched around it like it had forgotten what real food felt like.
Jesus.
This is what I've been missing.
He ate without speaking. Tore the bread. Soaked it in the broth. Cleaned the bowl in under five minutes.
Lyra watched with amusement, polishing a glass that was already clean. "First real meal since your mission?"
"First real meal since before my mission." He set the spoon down. "That was... good."
"That was average." She smiled. "You should try my premium menu. Twenty coins, but you'll remember it."
Maybe later. When I'm not bleeding coins on basics.
"So." Lyra set the glass aside and leaned on the counter. "You wanted orientation. What do you want to know?"
Silas considered. The Hub was a maze. The Citadel's explanation had been functional but sparse. He needed the gaps filled.
"Currencies," he said. "I've got Void Coins. What else is there?"
"Just Coins for most transactions. The Citadel mints them, tracks them. You can't forge them. Believe me, people have tried." She tapped the counter. "Some high-end traders accept materials directly. Monster parts, rare herbs, metals from derivative worlds. But for day-to-day? Coins."
Simple enough. One currency. No exchange rates to track.
"Food options?"
"Mess Hall is free. Nutrient paste, three flavors, all of them bad. Keeps you alive, keeps your stats from dropping, but your soul will hate you."
She gestured around.
"Places like mine cost more. Way more. But we import real ingredients. Some Contractors never eat anything else. Others save every coin for gear and live on paste for years."
Years.
People stay here for years.
"Arena?"
"Entertainment and income." Lyra's jaw tightened. "Contractors fight. Sometimes each other, sometimes beasts from derivative worlds. Crowds bet. Winners get coin, reputation, sometimes sponsorships."
"And the losers?"
"Feel every hit. Every cut. Every bone that breaks." She wiped down the counter, not meeting his eyes. "It's all projected. Your body stays in a chair while your mind fights. You can't actually die. But you experience dying. Over and over, if you're bad enough." She shrugged. "Most rookies quit after the first time they feel their throat get cut."
Pain without death. The Citadel's idea of training wheels.
"I'm guessing the high-stakes matches pay better."
"You're learning." She smiled, but it was thin. "Word of advice? Don't enter until you know what you're doing. Seen too many rookies walk in thinking they're tough and crawl out shaking."
Arena. High risk, high reward. Not yet.
"Attribute Enhancement Hall?"
"The big one." Lyra nodded toward the plaza outside. "Back toward the main concourse, third level up. That's where you spend your Points."
Points.
He focused inward. The Citadel responded.
[Free Attribute Points: 11]
Eleven. From the settlement, mostly. The Devourer had contributed too. Fractional points from every kill, adding up.
"You get Points from mission settlements," Lyra continued. "Performance bonuses, mostly. Some people have talents that give them other ways to earn." She paused. "And before you ask, no, you can't buy Points with Coins. Everyone tries. Everyone fails."
So money can't directly make me stronger. Only missions can.
That's... actually fair. In a brutal, survival-of-the-fittest kind of way.
"Anything else I should know?"
Lyra studied him for a moment. "You're asking the right questions. Most rookies just want to know where to get drunk." She reached under the counter and pulled out a small card, worn, handwritten. "If you need real information, not gossip, not rumors, but actual intel. There's a woman named Sera. Runs an information brokerage on Level 5, near the Arena. She's expensive, she's cold, and she'll sell your secrets to your enemies if the price is right."
She slid the card across. An address. A symbol he didn't recognize.
"But she's accurate?"
"Never known her to be wrong." Lyra shrugged. "Just know what you're walking into. She's not like me. She doesn't do friendly."
Silas pocketed the card. Information broker. Level 5. Sera.
Another contact. Another potential asset. Another person who might sell me out if someone pays better.
He stood. The stool scraped against the stone floor.
"Thanks," he said. "For the food. The orientation. What do I owe you for the info?"
Lyra waved a hand. "On the house. You looked like you needed it."
Free?
Nothing is free in this place.
But she was already turning back to her kitchen, wiping down a pot.
"Come back when you're hungry," she called over her shoulder. "Or when you've got gossip worth trading. Either works."
Huh.
Maybe some things are free. Or maybe she's investing in a repeat customer.
Either way, I'll take it.
He headed for the door. Paused at the threshold.
Three days until I go back to Earth. Three days to learn this place, to get stronger, to figure out how to survive.
Food sorted. Orientation done.
Next: find out what I can actually buy with 2,600 coins.
He stepped back into the alley. The noise of the Hub was a distant roar, muffled by the plaza's quiet. The card in his pocket felt like a decision waiting to happen.
Sera. Level 5.
Or the Attribute Enhancement Hall. See what I'm working with.
Or the Market Ring. Gear. Weapons. Armor.
Three paths. Three ways forward.
The card sat heavy in his pocket. Lyra's words echoed: She's expensive, she's cold, and she'll sell your secrets to your enemies if the price is right.
But she's accurate.
In a place like this, information was survival. Points and gear meant nothing if you spent them wrong.
He pulled out the card. Level 5. Near the Arena.
Time to find out what he didn't know.