The silence between them dragged on, and Cross awkwardly cleared his throat. “So… uh… nice day we’re having?”

The woman didn’t respond immediately. She just kept staring, her eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to figure out what to do with him. Cross swallowed nervously, hoping that whatever this was, it wouldn’t end with him being tossed across the street like a frisbee.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she spoke. “You’re interesting.”

Cross blinked. “I… I am?”

She nodded slowly, though her grip on his collar didn’t loosen. “You have something about you. Something different. Most people don’t have the guts to look me in the eye.”

Well, that explains a lot, Cross thought. His accidental boldness had caught her attention.

“And yet here you are,” she continued, her voice low and smooth, “walking into the W.R.O. with that ridiculous wave. What are you here for?”

“Ranker registration,” Cross said quickly, hoping that was a good enough answer.

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Hmm.”

Inside, Cross was crying. Hmm? Hmm?! What do you mean, hmm?!

*

Cross sighed as the tall woman continued to silently stare him down. She didn’t even blink. What am I doing? Cross thought. This wasn’t what he had signed up for. He was just here to register, not get held up by a woman with wolf eyes.

"Listen, I really don’t want to do this," Cross muttered, more to himself than to her.

His Clairvoyance ability flared, syncing his mind and body perfectly, giving him that sharp edge. He had only just started learning martial arts, mostly from videos online, but with Clairvoyance, everything was so much easier. His body seemed to move on its own, as if it knew exactly how to react.

Without warning, Cross grabbed onto the woman’s arm—the one still holding him up in the air—and twisted his waist. His other leg shot out toward her side in a practiced kick. It wasn’t meant to hurt her, just to knock her off balance enough for him to escape. As he did this, a mental “sorry” flashed in his head. He didn’t want to piss off someone as powerful as her, but he couldn’t just hang there like a child forever.

Thud.

The kick connected solidly, but to Cross’s dismay, the woman barely reacted. Worse, his kick didn’t land where he intended. Instead of hitting her waist, his leg was caught by her free hand. She held it firmly, like he weighed nothing.

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Cross’s face dropped, his bravado fading. “Uh… I’m sorry?” he offered, bracing himself for whatever retaliation was coming.

But instead of hitting him, the woman finally spoke, her voice calm and almost amused. “Bronx.”

“Uh, what?” Cross asked, confused.

“My name,” she said simply. “Bronx.”

Cross blinked. Bronx? He swore he had heard that name before. It sounded oddly familiar, but he couldn’t place it. In any case, now wasn’t the time to figure that out.

“Well, um… Bronx,” Cross started hesitantly, “do you think you could, I don’t know, maybe put me down? Pretty please?”

Before Bronx could respond, another voice cut through the air. “What are you doing, sis?!”

Both Bronx and Cross turned toward the source of the voice, and what Cross saw left him a little baffled. A younger, shorter woman was stomping toward them. She looked a lot like Bronx—similar features, same fiery red hair, but there was one major difference. This younger woman was, for lack of a better word, stacked. Her figure, particularly her chest, made Bronx look almost modest by comparison.

Cross assumed this was Bronx’s younger sister.

The younger woman pointed a finger accusingly at Bronx. “Put him down right now!”

Surprisingly, Bronx did as she was told, gently lowering Cross to the ground. Cross, utterly confused by the whole situation, dusted himself off and stood up straight.

"Thank you for saving me," Cross said, walking up to the younger sister with what he hoped were appreciative eyes. He was practically shining with gratitude, despite the weirdness of the situation.

The younger woman blinked, clearly weirded out by Cross’s sudden burst of emotion. “Uh… yeah, sure. No problem.”

Cross, oblivious to her discomfort, smiled even wider.

The younger sister then turned back to Bronx, her expression shifting to one of frustration. “Sis, you can’t keep doing this! Every time we take our eyes off you, you start acting weird! What would people think if they knew that ‘Titan’ of the ‘King’ Familia was such a weirdo?”

Titan? Cross’s brain was working overtime. Bronx, this incredibly strong woman who just lifted him like he was a doll, was the Titan? And not just any Titan, but one from the ‘King’ Familia?

He’d heard about the King Familia online. They were legendary, one of the most powerful and respected groups of Rankers in the world. And Bronx, apparently, was one of their most renowned members.

Suddenly, it clicked. It hit Cross like a lightning bolt—the name Bronx finally clicked into place. She was famous. Really famous. Cross had stumbled into a mess with a top-tier Ranker.

He had spent hours on the internet, researching everything he could about the power structures of this world. Towers, Fiends, the politics behind Rankers, but most importantly, the thing that dominated the social landscape of this world: Familias.

This wasn’t a world where adventurer guilds or hunter societies existed, like in some of the dungeon-crawling novels he’d read. No, here there were Familias—family-like organizations that operated with their own sets of rules, traditions, and power hierarchies. And joining one wasn’t as simple as filling out an application or passing a test.

For starters, you couldn’t actively apply to join a Familia. It was illegal. You had to be scouted or invited by an existing member, making them exclusive and often cutthroat. If you were offered a spot in a Familia, it was like winning the lottery. Familias often scouted based on talent, potential, or sometimes sheer luck, but once you were in, things got complicated.

Cross’s thoughts raced as he recalled another key detail: if you joined a Familia, you had to give up your last name. Your identity was absorbed into the Familia’s name. So if someone named Matthew Smith joined a Familia called Poison, he’d become Matthew Poison. Your identity was subsumed into the Familia, and the name carried a weight of obligation and expectation.