“It’s like I didn’t even spend the last four years on vacation,” Alex drawled, flicking his cigar butt into the trashcan at the bus stop.

High Garden was the only area in the city that still had electric buses instead of the usual magic-powered ones. For magic buses, you needed a special kind of pavement that had been recently (if four years prior counts as recently) laid on most downtown streets. But High Garden still had regular asphalt, albeit the good, durable kind.

Doom was standing by a small two-story building. The crooked Hunting & Fishing sign swayed in the wind. Some of the neon letters on the sign were burnt out—if it hadn’t been for the light cast by a nearby streetlamp, it would have been difficult to make sense of the whole thing.

The shop was flanked by taller, five-story apartment blocks. Made from red bricks and peppered with wooden shutters covering plain glass windows, they looked more like anthills than homes for self-respecting Atlanteans. They were where the city’s blue-collar workers lived.

Head to the factory in the morning. Work all day. Back to the doghouse at night.

“Doghouse” was the only word that really fit the tiny apartments, especially since there were always six to eight family members cooped up in each one.

After seeing the inside of one of them back when he was little, Alex had realized that he’d rather live on the streets than in one of those cramped hellholes.

Walking up to the stone porch leading to the shop entrance, Doom wiped the soles of the sneakers he’d been arrested in on the familiar, almost comforting stone path.

He pushed the door open and shuddered the way he always did at the banshee-like howl of the magic doorbell. A curse later, it struck him that nothing had changed. “How many times do I need to tell you to get a new doorbell?” he snarled, holding the door open behind him.

Four years may have passed, but everything was the same inside the old dwarf’s shop. The same shabby green carpet was still on the wooden floor, making the spacious room appear even larger.

The wooden tables by the walls featured glass display cases housing a variety of tools. Fishing tools on the left; hunting tools on the right.

Driven by curiosity, Alex approached the table on the right. A long, jagged knife instantly caught his eye. It had a carved, wooden hilt and several runes along the broad, gray blade.

[Item: Hunting Knife. Item rank: F. Maximum mana level: 12. Price: 145 credits.]

“The old man lost his last scrap of conscience.” Alex whistled. “A hundred and fifty credits for an F-class item? I’d rather rip a Dark Rat’s throat out with my bare hands than pay that much.”

F was the lowest class of magical items, meaning that a knife like that could only have been used to hunt Dark Rats or other random mutants.

Of course, for beginner monster hunters, that was possibly enough. For non-magic hunters, anyway. An artifact with 12 mana points was a blessing from heaven to them.

Hanging on the walls above the tables were clothing items. Pants and jackets were on racks, while the boots were on shelves.

“Columbia Jacket,” Alex read on the price tag of a dark green double-buckle jacket made from apparently very durable fabric.

[Item: Jacket. Item rank: F. Maximum mana absorption: 7.5. Ice resistance: 0.5%. Price: 210 credits.]

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Alex was so astonished, he almost started muttering a prayer, just about forgetting that prayers were worse for dark wizards than holy water was for vampires. Once, back when he’d been young and stupid, Doom had walked over to the entrance to a church. The gang had to spend an entire week nursing him back to health.

And the burns he’d gotten while being tortured with a cross back in prison would probably never heal.

“Are you looking for something specific or just browsing? Mr…?”

Alex turned toward the voice. Behind the counter, leaning on a retro-style cash register and looking bored out of his mind, stood a pimply student listening to a single wireless earbud.

His pimples had nothing to do with his age—he wasn’t much younger than Alex. It looked like he’d just never washed his face with soap.

Getting ready for a life in jail.

But Alex wasn’t going to spend much time joking on that topic. He’d already graduated, or left it, and he had no intention of ever going back. Not in the near future, nor any time after that—never again.

“Where’s Jeremy?” Alex asked, stepping closer to the student. He reeked of cheap cologne, and his sweaty armpits cut a sharp contrast to the soft, sweet smell of the baby cream on his wet palms. The perspiration on his forehead and the tablet that was turned over face down told him exactly what the old dwarf’s shop assistant had been up to.

Does this Probationer—let’s call him that—know there are cameras everywhere?

“There’s no Jeremy here anymore,” the Probationer answered unpleasantly.

“May his memory stay with us forever,” Alex replied, lifting his hat slightly.

“No, it’s not that!”

“What then?”

“He was fired.” The Probationer shrugged and, probably thinking he was being smooth about it, slipped the tablet off the countertop and onto the bottom shelf. What he didn’t realize was that there was a reflection of the screen in the cabinet glass. Kids really watch stuff like that? “About four months ago.”

“Why was he fired?” Alex was surprised. “I really liked him. He always offered me a cookie, and it doesn’t look like you have anything for me.”

“Well, I’d say you’re asking too many questions,” the Probationer said as he squinted at Alex. “If you’re not here to buy anything, fuck off, beggar.”

Alex sighed, easing his glasses upward to massage the bridge of his nose. “You’re the second person to call me a beggar tonight. And that’s helping my rotten mood.”

“Oh, no? I apologize for ruining your evening.” The Probationer moved subtly, bringing a non-magic but still deadly Colt 45 up to point at Doom’s face. “Might this improve your mood?”

“Do you know how to…”

The Probationer clicked the safety off deftly.

“…use it,” Alex finished calmly. “You do. But why the big hole?”

“What?”

“I’m just saying, your hole’s caliber is too big.”

The Probationer blinked, looking confused.

“Damn it,” Alex spat. “I’m trying to say you’re a bottom boy. A knob jockey. Been dropping any soap in jail? Hey, stop it, I’m not kiddi—”

“Oh, I got that!” the Probationer yelled. “Are you crazy? I could shoot you right in the—”

Before he could finish, Alex latched his right hand around the student’s wrist, locking it down firmly, and rested his thumb against the trigger. His left hand shoved the muzzle away. Then, using both hands, he jerked it toward himself.

Everything happened faster than the Probationer could blink. Suddenly, there he was, clutching a sprained wrist and staring down the barrel of his gun.

“I told you,” Alex said firmly, no longer clowning around, “I’m in a bad mood. Where’s Bromwoord?”

“H-he t-told m-me n-not t-to l-let a-anyone i-in,” the Probationer stammered.

“Would you be so kind as to make an exception for me?” Alex smiled.

He probably shouldn’t have done that. The smell of cologne and baby cream was instantly complemented by the sharp, sour stench of ammonia. Spreading over the floor between the boy’s feet was a pool of unpleasant-looking liquid.

Oh, wow. Jeremy was much tougher.

“S-s-sure.”

The student pressed something beneath the counter. A part of the wall with a griffin’s head mounted on it (a fake one, of course; just one real griffin’s head would’ve bought half the old man’s shop) slid aside, revealing a passage that led to a staircase spiraling down into a dark cellar.

Dwarves sure do love their caves.

“Good,” Alex nodded.

Letting some magic seep into his hands, he used a bit of mental force to draw a simple pentagram on his palm and then cast a rotting curse.

“These kinds of toys aren’t for kids… They’re not kids’ toys at all. Hell, what am I saying? I sound like an idiot.”

Lamenting the fact that he’d apparently lost his gift for eloquence, Alex headed toward the staircase as the Probationer, still trembling, watched his gun dissolve. It spread over the counter like an odd discoloration in the wood.

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