The streets always felt different after sunset in Rustvale.
Not just darker meaner.
The lamps were few and far between here, leaving long stretches of black where the city's predators waited. The air was damp, thick with the smell of rust, stale beer, and the sharp bite of ozone from faulty magitech wiring overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a bottle smashed against brick, followed by laughter that didn't sound friendly.
Caz moved fast, keeping his hood low, his left hand brushing the wall to feel his way through the narrow backstreets of Dockside. The package in his inner jacket pocket felt heavier than it should. The client had been clear:
"Don't get followed. Don't open it. And if someone asks questions they won't be asking twice."
Which was another way of saying the contents were the kind of thing people would bleed for.
He'd been moving for fifteen minutes without a tail when the first sound came a soft tap of boots hitting the cobblestone behind him. Too close. Too steady.
Caz didn't turn around. He slowed slightly, letting the rhythm of his own footsteps mask the change in direction as he cut into a side alley.
The alley narrowed until the walls nearly brushed his shoulders. Broken drainpipes dripped on his hood. The cobbles here were uneven, jagged, slick with leftover rainwater that shimmered faintly in the weak lamplight.
And then they were there.
Four of them, stepping out of the shadows like they'd been poured from it. The Rat Knives.
Red cloth bands tied sloppy around their wrists, knives hanging from their belts like an extension of their hands. The leader tall, thin, with teeth too white for the slums grinned like he'd been expecting Caz.
"Well, well," he said, voice carrying just enough amusement to make it clear this wasn't a chance meeting. "Look what wandered into our block."
Caz kept his posture loose, eyes flicking between them. The one on the far left had a lazy grip on his blade overconfident. The one on the far right had already shifted his weight forward eager to rush. The other two? Watching. Waiting for the order.
"You've been dodging us," the leader said. "Not polite."
"I've been working," Caz replied.
"Working means you've got coin," the leader said, taking a step closer. "And coin means we've got business."
The man's smirk widened, but before he could take another step, movement at the far end of the alley caught everyone's attention.
A figure stumbled into view, leaning heavily against the brick wall. Broad shoulders. Heavy boots. A trail of fresh blood marking his path.
Caz's brain caught up before his eyes fully did.
Rigg Malco.
He'd only seen the man twice before, and never this close once at the market square surrounded by armed muscle, and once across the floor of a gambling den, his laughter shaking the rafters. Rigg wasn't just a gang boss; in Rustvale, his name had weight. The kind that made men step aside without looking up.
But now, he was hunched, face pale under the grime, a deep, jagged wound spilling dark blood down his side.
The Rat Knives shifted. Even bleeding, Rigg Malco was a problem no one wanted to inherit.
Rigg's eyes found Caz.
Sharp. Unblinking. And in that one instant, Caz felt something pass between them a silent measuring. Rigg wasn't seeing a kid. He was seeing… something else.
He pushed himself off the wall, staggering forward, his boots dragging across the wet stone. His right hand dipped into his coat and came out with a small glass vial. The liquid inside swirled in slow, unnatural spirals, catching the light in strange ways red one second, green the next, like it couldn't decide on a color.
His other hand produced a thin, needle-like injector.
Caz took a step back. "What"
"Don't waste it," Rigg rasped. His voice was gravel, shredded from pain, but every syllable carried command.
And before Caz could move, Rigg closed the distance.
The needle punched into his arm.
The burn was instant molten fire flooding his veins. It wasn't pain like a cut or a bruise. It was deeper, hotter, as if something alive was moving through his blood, clawing for his heart. His knees buckled, his vision blurred, and a rushing sound like a storm roared in his ears.
The Rat Knives shouted. Some in surprise, some in anger. Caz barely registered the scuffle as Rigg staggered back, his body finally giving in, and collapsed face-first into the puddles.
Caz hit the wall, both hands gripping his arm, teeth grinding against a groan. His vision went white, then black, then burst into colors he couldn't name. His skin crawled. Every muscle in his body spasmed.
Voices echoed — the Rat Knives debating whether to attack or back off. He couldn't tell if they were afraid of Rigg's corpse or whatever was happening to him.
Something deep inside his skull began to speak. Not in words at first — in pulses, rhythms, like someone knocking on the inside of his mind. Then, clarity:
"Unique Host Detected."
"Basilisk Strain Integrating."
"Quest: Survive the Mutation Time Limit: 72 Hours."
Caz tried to shake the voice away. It stayed.
The burn didn't fade it spread, searing through his chest, down his spine, curling into his fingertips and toes. He felt like his blood had turned to boiling metal.
He staggered sideways, forcing himself into the narrowest stretch of the alley, one hand still pressed against the wall. His legs wanted to give out. His lungs couldn't pull enough air. The world tilted.
The Rat Knives finally moved.
One lunged with a blade, shouting something incoherent. Caz twisted out of reflex more than thought, his body moving faster than his brain could keep up with. The knife scraped the wall instead of his ribs. He shoved the man into another, then stumbled forward into the darkness.
Somewhere behind him, someone cursed and gave chase, but Caz's body was running before he made the choice. His vision tunneled. Every step felt like it was tearing his muscles apart.
When he finally ducked through the side door of a half-collapsed tenement, he leaned against the damp wall, fighting to stay upright.
The System's voice whispered again, colder this time:
"72 hours… or you die."