"When is the dungeon even opening?"
Zeke asked, the words slightly muffled around a melting spoonful of rich vanilla bean ice cream.
"A week from now. Did you not listen to the briefing?" Aaron answered, his voice carrying the particular exasperation of someone who had already repeated this more than once.
"No." Zeke continued slurping, unbothered. The cold sweetness sat in sharp contrast to the dry, mineral-tinged air of The Expanse drifting in through the open balcony.
"...Sigh." The sound came out flat and heavy with resignation.
The Expanse—yes, the dungeon shares the name of the continent itself. An open-world dungeon: a vast, manifesting landmass filled with treasures said to gleam with their own inner light, and monsters that are ancient, territorial, and powerful enough to have earned the right to guard them.
Two types roam its shifting terrain. Guardian monsters—stationary sentinels bound to specific, legendary hoards. And the others, predators that drift across the landscape on instinct and hunger, drawn to the scent of mana-rich flesh.
The dungeon opens for exactly seven days and accommodates a maximum of one hundred hunters, capped at S-Rank strength. A rule enforced by the continent's ruling house. A rule designed to ensure that not everyone who enters comes back out in pieces.
'It's like those secret realm arcs from cultivation novels.'
Zeke mused, leaning back until his chair creaked in faint protest.
{What do you know—maybe you'll run into some young masters this time,} Zero's voice chimed in his skull, dripping with digital glee.
'Courting death' Zeke shot back. A faint, predatory smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
{Hehe. Who would've thought—from fighting dragons to scrapping with spoiled heirs over treasure hoards.}
'Part of me wants it to happen. It'd be fun.'
…
"This was fun."
"Happy to serve, Miss Makima."
Zeke bowed with a theatrical flourish, his trench coat swaying with the motion, then brushed his lips against her knuckles—the gesture smooth, practiced, and just cheesy enough to land as charming rather than cringe.
He had successfully taken Makima on their third date. The first two had unfolded over the past six months, carefully orchestrated by Zero in the margins between football matches and the mandatory, suffocating obligations of guild appearances.
One might say his charisma had paved the way for White Fang's recommendation from Avalon. In Zeke's mind, the entire diplomatic outcome was, naturally, entirely thanks to him.
His charisma.
The official story, polished for public consumption, made no mention of dragons. It simply stated that White Fang had successfully raided an S-Rank dungeon—clean, tidy, and strategically vague. The result was the same: their perceived prowess had skyrocketed overnight. Avalon had handed all credit directly to White Fang.
…
Now, standing in the opulent, sound-dampening hallway of the five-star hotel—the same one housing him and the three musketeers—Zeke walked Makima to her door. The plush carpet swallowed their footsteps completely. The air smelled of polished wood and expensive air freshener.
"I'll admit, Zeke—you're an anomaly," Makima said, a small, genuine smile settling on her lips as she leaned against the doorframe. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes were sharp, scanning him with an easy mix of amusement and curiosity. "Most hunters I know only talk about stats and glory. You talk about sitcoms."
"Man of culture and violence." Zeke grinned, the expression briefly displacing his usual apathy as he tucked both hands into the pockets of his joggers. "Rare combo. Like pineapple on pizza—you're either repulsed or you've found your new religion."
She laughed. Soft, melodic, warm enough to brighten the dim hallway. "And which am I?"
"You agreed to a third date. I'd say you're already converted."
The banter was easy—the same comfortable back-and-forth that had carried all three of their dates. There was a clear mutual current between them, something that existed in its own quiet bubble, sealed off from guild politics and the impending dungeon chaos.
Just as Makima's fingers touched the cool surface of her keycard, a familiar voice cut through his skull—gratingly smug, as always.
{Ahem. Operation 'Smooth Criminal' is approaching its climax, I see. The data doesn't lie—her heart rate has increased by 12% since you entered the hallway. Chances of being invited in for a 'nightcap' are sitting at a solid 68%. Well done, you magnificent slut.}
'Zero. Not now' Zeke thought back. His smile didn't shift by a degree.
{What? I'm providing tactical support. Should I queue up some Marvin Gaye? I can short-circuit the bulb two doors down, give you some mood lighting—}
'I will factory reset you.'
Makima, entirely unaware of the ongoing internal crisis, looked at him with quiet expectation, the faint glow of a wall sconce catching the subtle highlights in her hair. "So. The dungeon opens in a week. Will I see you trying to be a hero in there?"
"Me? A hero?" Zeke chuckled—low, genuine—and shook his head, his silver-streaked hair shifting with the motion. "Nah. I'm just a guy who got dragged along and decided to stay. At least I get to watch you kick ass."
"Somehow, I believe that," she said, shaking her head with quiet amusement. A faint warmth had crept into her cheeks. She held his gaze for a beat longer than necessary, her expression softening. "Well. Goodnight, Zeke."
A clear ending. A polite door closing.
For a moment, Zeke simply looked at her. His metallic grey eyes glinted with that familiar, unsettling combination of apathy and sharp intelligence.
Then he delivered the killing blow.
He leaned in, closing the small distance between them until she caught the faint, clean scent of his cologne layered beneath the open-air mineral tang of the continent. Not to kiss her—to whisper. His voice dropped to a low, conspiratorial murmur that seemed to settle in the quiet hallway like something deliberate.
"You know, they say the best treasures aren't the ones you find in the dungeon..."
He let the pause hang—one perfect, unhurried beat.
"...They're the ones you steal from other hunters when they're not looking. See you on the battlefield, Makima."
He finished it with a wink—unhurried, infuriatingly precise, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes—then turned and strolled away down the hallway, hands still buried in his pockets, without a single backward glance.
He left her standing at her door with one hand still on the keycard, flushed, faintly flustered, and entirely disarmed by the promise of something she couldn't quite name.
It was infinitely more him.
He had rounded the corner, the hotel's central air conditioning humming low and steady overhead, when Zero's voice returned—subdued this time, and carrying something that sounded almost like genuine respect.
{You absolute madman. You had a 68% shot at a kiss and you went with a 100% chance of psychological warfare. I'm not even mad. I'm impressed.}
'Told you' Zeke thought back.
A real smirk spread across his face—unforced, unhurried—as he moved down the hall toward the inevitable interrogation waiting for him around the next corner. The ghost of Makima's expression followed him like a well-earned reward.
Charisma.