The morning sun glinted off the freshly polished brass plaque of Cross & Cleansing Agency as Ethan stepped back to admire his handiwork. The family business might be his now, but he still took pride in maintaining the old man's standards. His fingers brushed against the engraved lettering - a tangible connection to Lucian Cross's legacy, even if the bastard was currently sipping margaritas on some Caribbean beach with Mom.
The sudden vibration in his breast pocket nearly made him drop the screwdriver. He fished out the buzzing smartphone - a modern concession in their ancient trade - and frowned at the Unknown Caller display. In a world where Entities could hijack phone lines, unsolicited calls were...unwise. But the shortlist of people who had this number barely filled one hand:
1.His wandering parents (currently offline in the Andes, last he'd heard)
2.Seraphina Vale (who'd text like a normal person)
3.Chief Sophia Laurent (and she'd better be calling about a paycheck)
The third ring decided it. He thumbed the answer button.
"Ethan Cross speaking." The words came out sharper than intended, edged with the tension of a man who'd spent too many nights fighting things that shouldn't exist.
Static crackled for a heartbeat before a familiar voice cut through. "Master Ethan? It's Sophia Laurent. We met at the Vale villa incident—you gave me your card." Her tone was all business, the kind of clipped professionalism that screamed cop trying to hold it together. But beneath the polished cadence, Ethan's enhanced senses caught the telltale signs—the slight catch in her breathing, the almost imperceptible tremor in her vowels.
Someone's desperate.
"Chief Laurent," he replied, consciously smoothing his voice into the velvety cadence that had charmed wealthy widows and terrified junior exorcists in equal measure. "What can the Cross family do for you today?" He leaned against the doorframe, watching a stray cat knock over a trash can across the street. The normalcy of the scene contrasted sharply with the unnatural tension coiling down the phone line.
The pause stretched just a beat too long before Sophia spoke again. "I have a...situation. One that requires discretion. And certain specialized skills." Each word felt carefully measured, like she was negotiating a hostage situation. "I'd prefer to discuss it in person."
Ethan's lips curled. That particular brand of bureaucratic euphemism could only mean one thing—The Bureau's hands are tied, and someone's looking for off-the-books solutions.
"My office is open," he said, already mentally calculating potential fee structures. "Though I should warn you—the consultation alone starts at—"
"Ten minutes." The line went dead with a decisive click.
Ethan stared at the darkened screen for a moment before pocketing the phone. That hadn't been a request. He glanced at the half-hung sign swinging gently in the morning breeze. Business before housekeeping, I suppose.
Ten Minutes Later
The black SUV arrived with the subtlety of a battering ram, its oversized tires spraying gravel across the sidewalk as it jerked to a stop. The tinted windows hid its occupant, but Ethan didn't need x-ray vision to recognize that parking job—only Sophia Laurent drove like every street was a pursuit course.
The door slammed open to reveal the police chief in what passed for civilian attire—black tactical jeans, combat boots, and a leather jacket that probably concealed at least three weapons. Her dark hair was pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail, though a few rebellious strands framed the sharp angles of her face. She looked like she hadn't slept in days.
Ethan ushered her inside with a theatrical bow. "Welcome to Cross & Cleansing, where no supernatural problem is too—"
"Violette's trapped in the South District building." The words exploded out of her like a dam breaking. "The Bureau's calling it a recovery operation now. Gale says...Gale says the survival window's closed." Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, the leather of her gloves creaking with the strain. "I need you to bring her out. Alive."
Ethan's smirk faded. He'd expected a haunted necklace or maybe a possessed heirloom—not a suicide mission into the city's most notorious Entity hotspot. The abandoned high-rise had been chewing up Bureau teams for weeks. Even with his upgrades...
A chime sounded in his skull as crimson text scrolled across his vision:
[Special Mission: Tower of the Damned]
Location: South District Containment Zone
Objective: Terminate all hostile Entities (0/27 confirmed)
Secondary Objective: Recover subject "Violette Nocturne" (status unknown)
Rewards:
● Primary Lottery Ticket ×1
● 8500 Supernatural Points
[Accept Contract? Y/N]
Ethan exhaled slowly. The system's timing was impeccable as always.
Sophia misinterpreted his hesitation. "Name your price," she said, her voice raw. "I don't care what it takes."
That was the magic phrase. Ethan moved behind his desk—an antique monstrosity that had survived three generations of Crosses—and withdrew a triplicate contract from the bottom drawer. The parchment-like paper smelled of iron gall ink and something darker.
"Let's discuss terms." He smoothed the document across the worn surface, tapping the relevant clauses. "Standard retrieval contracts have two payment tiers—"
"Just tell me what you need," Sophia interrupted, her eyes scanning the dense legalese with growing impatience.
Ethan smiled—the expression of a shark circling blood. "For a live extraction? One hundred million. That includes combat fees, hazard pay, and my discretion." He flipped the page. "If I'm recovering remains, sixty million. Either way, forty percent non-refundable deposit before I step foot in that death trap."
Sophia's breath caught. Even for a police chief, those numbers were...extreme. "That's more than the Bureau's annual—"
"The Bureau isn't asking you to walk into a building that's eaten seven of their best," Ethan countered. "And unlike them, I don't have a pension to worry about." He leaned forward, the morning light catching the golden flecks in his eyes. "Your sister went missing seventy-two hours ago in a confirmed Category 3 haunt. You're not paying for results, Chief. You're paying for me to risk becoming the next name on the memorial wall."
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Outside, a distant siren wailed—some ordinary crisis in a world that had stopped being ordinary long ago.
Sophia's jaw worked. The sum was astronomical—enough to bankrupt most civil servants. But the real gut-punch was the cold calculus laid bare: Hope has a price. So does closure.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the pen.