Averon leads the [Bounty Hunter] and [Captain] to his private office, one where prying ears need not hear.

  “Sit,” He orders and walks to a nearby safe. Pressing his hand to it, the signature clicks and the lock shifts. Opening the safe, he quickly collects a bag of coins before closing the safe. As he turns to the two, he watches as a pen falls off his desk from the slight movement of a paw.

  Both cat and human freeze at his gaze. The cat takes a seat on the desk acting as though he’s not just pushed something off it. The woman is smiling, holding what Averon believes to be a laugh.

  He looks at them over once again so as to get a feel.

  Job wise, they are nothing special, but their classes are almost assuredly in the expert realm. Quasi is most likely some kind of [Druid]. Maybe even [Shifter], though such a class is unlikely considering rarity. As for Miss Daiyu, he already knows she’s completely bounties created for expert classes.

  With a grunt, he leans into his chair and places the bag of coins on the table. “I’ll be blunt. I need Corvin's death to be kept quiet. I’ve got your pay in the bag as well as extra for the discretion.”

  “We’d like to also demand free food at the tavern.” Quasi adds quickly. “I’ll make sure my crew keeps their mouths shut too.”

  Averon frowns at the odd request. He’d expected them to ask for more coin, not that he’d give it. But food? Food he can do.

  “That can be arranged.”

  “Wait,” Daiyu interrupts. “Why do you want us to be silent?” She asks.

  “Because it’ll cause a major mess.” Quasi says. “Well, worse than what’s already happening.” Quasi stands and almost shoves a paperweight off the desk. “We’ve just killed off a significantly powerful mob boss that most likely controlled not only territory, but a certain type of crime. Now that he’s dead, there will be a vacuum as the competition moves to take territory. Considering he’d only just died, those in the know will be moving. But if it becomes public that he’s dead, then everyone with aspirations of power will move all at once. The streets will turn into a battleground, one the leadership of fumehold will blame Averon for.” Quasi tilts his head to Averon. “That’s the gist of it, right?”

  Averon nods slowly. “That is… accurate. I should also warn you both, specifically Miss Daiyu, that it would be a good idea to leave the island. Corvin made many people very wealthy, and his death will strike dearly on their coffers. These individuals are not above vengeance.”

  Daiyu nods. “I’ve been at this for a while. I’m not afraid of people coming after my life.”

  Averon grimaces. “The problem here is that the people who’d want vengeance also lead the city. Killing criminals in self defense is one thing, but the authority of Fumehold is a completely different story.”

  She pauses for a moment, then nods. “Point taken.”

  “Good,” Averon acknowledges. “Keep quiet and get out as soon as you can.” He pauses for a moment, “And thank you for handling him. Corvin deserved death.”

  _______________________________________________________________

  Daiyu picked up the key without looking. The corridor was quiet—only the muffled echo of the guild beyond—and the stairs smelled faintly of oil and old boots as she climbed to the third floor. She unlocked the door with a practiced twist and stepped into her room.

  Two hundred square feet of business-as-usual. Her bed lay unmade; gear and tools littered a desk; clothes rested where she’d dropped them last night. Nothing had been touched. It felt like returning to a house that knew her.

  Quasi hopped from her shoulder and landed on the desk with feline grace that scattered a few stray casings. He nosed at everything, whiskers twitching as he inspected black powder, spent shells, and a heavy metal projectile that sat like a miniature cannonball.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “Careful,” Daiyu warned without looking up.

  He ignored her. “You make bullets,” he observed, tail flicking. “I thought these were the casing, but—” He tapped the heavy slug. “That’s the projectile. Why is it so damn big?” He tapped a nearly-finished case beside it. “There’s barely room for powder. Is that for a rifle?”

  Daiyu set another completed round into the tray and kept working. “No. They’re for my two magnums.” She slid a cartridge home with a crisp practiced motion.

  Quasi frowned. “That doesn’t look usable. With that mass the projectile won’t reach speed... unless—”

  She didn’t look up. “I have [Supersonic Projectiles]. It forces every fired round to reach a minimum velocity regardless of powder burned.” Her hands never paused; metal kissed metal, a rhythm of efficiency.

  Quasi’s eyes tracked her fingers, fascinated. “With that weight, penetration must be insane.”

  “It is,” she said. “Too much at times. My bullets will rip through flesh, armor, and sometimes the wall behind them.” A small, almost regretful shrug.

  “Does it work on cannons?” Quasi asked in the tone of a cat trying to sound practical.

  “Anything considered a projectile.” She packed another cartridge. “Bullets, bolts, arrows. Not knives—knives can be used as tools.” She glanced up, a quick, dry smile. “My skill ignores things with multiple functions.”

  Quasi chuckled, half purr, half calculus. “Perfect. Very perfect.” He leaned in, sniffing, muttering about tungsten cores and gravity runes as if testing a new recipe. “Imagine the momentum calculations—if you can rune more weight—”

  Daiyu slid the last box into her bag, her movements brisk. She yanked her clothes and machining tools into a satchel and slung it over one shoulder. The room smelled of oil, gunpowder, and work—home.

  She turned to Quasi. “Ready.”

  He flashed a grin that showed far too many teeth for someone so small. “Explosives next. Let’s go requisition chaos from a doctor.”

  She locked the door behind them and they left—bullets clinking in her bag, plans forming louder than the footsteps on the stairs.

  __________________________________________________________

  The two knocks came quick and neat—measured, but laced with urgency.

  Salvatore Gambino didn’t look up from his desk. “Come in.”

  The door opened, and Dalmare Gambino stepped inside. His posture was professional, his expression carefully neutral, but Salvatore caught the tension beneath it immediately.

  “Boss,” Dalmare said with a curt nod. “There’s a problem.”

  Salvatore leaned back in his chair, reached for his cigar, and took a slow puff before setting it back in the ashtray. Smoke curled lazily between them. “Corvin Malvek is dead,” he said.

  Dalmare blinked. “How did you—”

  “Know?” Salvatore’s smile was thin. “I didn’t. Not until you walked in.” He steepled his fingers. “Urgent knocks are quick and heavy. Yours were quick but light—important, but not a crisis. Then, when you entered, I saw the crease in your suit and the drop of blood on your shoe. Barely a speck, but fresh. Corvin’s blood, I presume.”

  Dalmare glanced down. The drop was there, faint as a fingerprint. He exhaled. “Yes. He was killed—over that trinket he tried to sell us.”

  Salvatore’s brow lifted. “Trinket?”

  “An ,” Dalmare replied, taking the leather chair across from him. “Legendary rank. It completely hides one’s class and job when worn.”

  That made Salvatore sit forward. Legendary artifacts weren’t trinkets—they were reasons nations fell. “And how,” he asked slowly, “did Corvin Malvek come into possession of such a thing?”

  Dalmare’s gaze flicked to the runed walls—wards against eavesdropping shimmered faintly in the lamplight. “You know Malvek’s trade, boss. Flesh, slaves… even children.”

  Salvatore’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He only gestured for Dalmare to go on.

  “Apparently, one of his ‘acquisitions’ was the [Crown Princess] Claryssandra Fallarion.”

  That made Salvatore pause mid-breath. “She’s here?” His eyes widened before he forced his composure back. “The necklace was hers, then. And let me guess—the Ghostwright came to collect her.”

  “Not the Ghostwright,” Dalmare said. “A talking cat. Claimed to be a [Captain]—name of .”

  Salvatore raised an eyebrow. “So the [Admiral] wasn’t present.”

  “There were others with the cat,” Dalmare continued. “Each with job—[Navigator], [Security Chied], [Chief Physician], [Gunner]. A crew, of sorts. The [Princess] seemed particularly close to the older man with the [Navigator] job. He’s not named and his name doesn't fit, but he fits the age and species.”

  Salvatore drew on his cigar again, thoughtful smoke wreathing his face. “If they have a relic that hides jobs and classes,” he said, “then one that conceals wouldn’t be far behind. That would explain the lack of identification—and yes, that’s likely him.”

  He looked to Dalmare. “You’re thinking we move for a bounty?”

  Dalmare nodded slightly. “I can have our specialists—”

  “No,” Salvatore interrupted, waving a hand. “Corvin is dead. I’ve no intention of sharing his fate. For now, just watch them. Quietly. Note when they leave the island.”

  “Understood.” Dalmare stood, straightening his coat.

  “Dalmare,” Salvatore said as the man reached for the door. His voice was calm, but carried the edge of iron. “Keep this quiet. I don’t want gossip or ambition turning into a dead child on my conscience.”

  Dalmare inclined his head. “I’d never dream of it.”

  When the door clicked shut, Salvatore sat in silence, cigar burning low in the ashtray. The room filled with smoke and thought—plans taking shape behind the soft hum of powered runes, as the head of the Fumehold branch began to scheme.