The phone rang. 8:47 AM.
"What?" I answered, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder as I laced my work boots.
"Xavier!" Noel's voice crackled through the speaker, pitched higher than usual. "You won't believe it. A B-rank gate opened on Rodeo Drive twenty minutes ago."
I grunted, double-knotting the laces. "And? Gates open all the time."
"Mother Kafka is going to clear it."
My fingers froze mid-tie. "What?"
"The Scavenger Guild just announced it on their official channel. She's in LA, Xavi. Today."
I grabbed my thermos of coffee. "Aren't you supposed to be in class? That Econ seminar you wouldn't shut up about?"
"That's not important," she dismissed, and I could picture her waving her hand like she was batting away a fly. "What's important is that Mother is going to be here! In LA!"
I took a long sip of black coffee, scalding my tongue. "Noel—"
"This is a sign. We've been talking about making connections with higher-ranked hunters, and now the universe delivers an S-rank right to us."
"The universe didn't deliver shit. Thomas Andre's PR team scheduled a gate clearing." I grabbed my keys and headed for the door. "I've got work in forty minutes. Construction site in Glendale."
"But Xavier—"
"Don't piss me off this early, Noel." The morning air hit my face as I stepped outside, cool and damp with marine layer that hadn't burned off yet. "I can't afford to miss a shift."
"I know that," she said, her voice softening. "I just... thought maybe you could swing by after work? The clearing's scheduled for 4 PM. They rope these things off for hours."
I sighed, leaning against my car. A 2009 black Ford Mustang that drank gas like water but was the one luxury I'd allowed myself. Dad's insurance money. One of the few things our relatives couldn't touch.
"What exactly do you want me to do?"
"Get her autograph." Noel's voice went small, almost embarrassed. "For me."
I closed my eyes. "That's probably not going to happen."
"Just... try? Please? I'd go myself, but I have that group project meeting at 4, and if I skip again, Professor Williams will fail me."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Fine. I'll try. But I'm not promising anything."
"You're the best big brother! I love you!"
"Yeah, yeah. I'll text you later." I hung up and slid into the driver's seat.
The Mustang's engine growled to life, a sound that never failed to settle something inside me. Maybe it was the illusion of power, of control. God knows I had little enough of either these days.
As I pulled onto the street, I let my mind wander to Kafka. S-rank. One of only a handful in the entire world. The kind of power that made even other hunters look like children playing with sticks.
My father had known a few S-ranks. Had worked with them occasionally. Always came home tense afterward, drinking more than usual. "Different breed," he'd say, staring into his whiskey. "Like they've got one foot in another world."
I'd never seen one up close. Never wanted to. The higher ranks lived in a different reality than the rest of us. Celebrities, politicians, gods walking among mortals. And Kafka? She was the worst kind – beautiful, lethal, and fully aware of both.
The traffic light turned red, and I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel. Thomas Andre must have a reason for sending his prized attack dog to clear a simple B-rank. Publicity stunt, maybe. The Scavengers had been pushing hard into the West Coast market lately.
Or maybe there was something special about this gate. Something they weren't telling the public.
My phone buzzed with a text. Noel, sending a link to Kafka's latest Instagram post – a photo of the morning LA skyline from what had to be a penthouse view, captioned only with a spider emoji.
I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. Not my problem. I had walls to frame, bills to pay, and a sister to keep in college. Celebrity hunters could play their games without me.
The construction site was in full motion when I arrived. Foreman Chuck spotted me and waved me over, clipboard in hand.
"Valentine, you're on the west wall today. We need to get that framing done before the inspectors show up tomorrow."
I nodded, grabbing my tool belt from the site locker. "Got it."
"And listen," he lowered his voice, "word is there's a gate clearing downtown. Bunch of guys talking about taking an early lunch to watch. Don't even think about it."
I fastened the belt. "Wasn't planning to."
"Good man. Unlike some of these idiots, you actually show up to work."
I just nodded again and headed for the west wall. Truth was, I needed this job more than most of the guys here. They had families, support networks, second incomes. I had Noel and a mountain of debt that grew every semester.
By noon, my shirt was soaked through with sweat, and my arms burned from hauling lumber. The California sun had burned through the marine layer, turning the day hot and bright. I was hammering in the last nail on a support beam when my phone vibrated in my pocket.
Another text from Noel: They've cordoned off three blocks. News helicopters everywhere. You should see the crowd already forming.
I ignored it, wiping sweat from my forehead with my forearm.
Five minutes later, another buzz: Just heard she's bringing a full team. Maybe Thomas Andre himself is coming too?
I shoved the phone deeper into my pocket and grabbed another two-by-four.
By 3:30, half the crew had mysteriously developed stomach issues or family emergencies. Chuck was fuming, stalking around the remaining workers like a drill sergeant.
"Pathetic," he muttered as he passed me. "Grown men acting like teenagers over some hunter celebrity."
I grunted in agreement, but my mind kept drifting to Rodeo Drive. To Kafka. To what an S-rank hunter looked like in action. I'd only seen the sanitized versions on official broadcasts. My father had told different stories. About the raw power. About how it changed a person to witness it.
At 3:45, Chuck called a break. "Fifteen minutes. Get some water, we're pushing through until six tonight to make up for the deserters."
I sat in the shade of a half-constructed wall, drinking lukewarm water from my bottle. My phone showed three more texts from Noel, each more excited than the last. The final one was a live stream link from some news channel.
Against my better judgment, I clicked it.
The video loaded, showing aerial footage of Rodeo Drive. Even through the small screen, I could see the massive crowd behind barricades. Police, Hunter Association security, and what looked like private military contractors in unmarked tactical gear formed a perimeter around the gate.
The gate itself pulsed with a sickly blue glow, a vertical tear in reality about twenty feet high. B-rank, definitely. Large enough to cause serious problems if left unchecked, but nothing special by hunter standards.
The camera zoomed in as a black SUV convoy pulled up. The news anchor's voice bubbled with excitement: "—and here comes the Scavenger Guild team now, led by none other than S-rank hunter Kafka, who has cleared over one hundred gates worldwide—"
The car doors opened, and there she was.
Even through the grainy live stream, she commanded attention. That wine-red hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, the distinctive black jacket draped over her shoulders like a cape.
I felt something stir in my chest. Recognition, maybe. Or envy. The casual confidence of someone who knew exactly what they were capable of, who never had to scrape and scrounge just to survive.
"Pretty one, isn't she?"
I looked up. Chuck stood there, watching over my shoulder.
"Just checking the traffic," I lied, locking my phone. "Don't want to get stuck downtown on the way home."
Chuck snorted. "Right. Traffic." He took a swig from his own water bottle. "Your old man was A-rank, wasn't he?"
The question caught me off guard. Chuck rarely mentioned my background. "Yeah."
"Thought so. Recognized the name when you applied. Valentine. He worked that big gate collapse in San Diego, back in '14."
I nodded stiffly. "Him and my mother both."
Chuck's eyes softened slightly. "Good hunters. Heard they saved a lot of civilians that day."
"Not enough to save themselves in Utah," I said, more bitterly than I intended.
An uncomfortable silence fell between us. Chuck cleared his throat. "Listen, Xavier. You're one of my best workers. Never late, never complain. Take off early today. Full pay."
I blinked. "What?"
"Go watch the gate clearing. But I expect you here at 6 AM sharp tomorrow to make up the hours."
I stared at him, suspicious. "Why?"
Chuck shrugged. "My dad was military. Died in Afghanistan when I was fifteen. Some colonel showed up at our door with a medal and a flag. Told me what a hero my father was." He took another swig of water. "Didn't mean shit to me at the time. But years later, I tracked down the men who served with him. Hearing their stories... it helped. Made him real again."
I understood then. Chuck thought I was seeking closure, some connection to my parents through watching another hunter work. It wasn't that. Not really. But I wasn't going to correct him.
"Thanks," I said, standing up and dusting off my jeans. "I appreciate it."
Chuck nodded gruffly. "Don't mention it. Seriously, don't. I don't want the others thinking I've gone soft."
I gathered my things and headed for the Mustang, torn between relief and guilt. As I started the engine, I checked the traffic. Heavy congestion around Beverly Hills, as expected. The clearing wasn't scheduled for another fifteen minutes, but if I took Olympic instead of Wilshire...
I pulled out of the construction site, telling myself I was only doing this for Noel. Just a brother doing a favor for his sister. Nothing more.
But as I accelerated onto the freeway, weaving through traffic with more urgency than the situation warranted, I couldn't ignore the pull I felt. Not toward Kafka herself, but toward what she represented. The world my parents had inhabited. The power they had wielded. The legacy they had left behind.
A legacy I had turned my back on, registering as a D-rank only because the Association required it once my minimal abilities were detected. Taking just enough training to avoid mandatory service, then walking away.
My phone buzzed again on the passenger seat. I glanced over: Noel had sent a close-up shot someone had managed to take of Kafka as she inspected the gate. Her eyes glowed faintly with power, wine-red irises lit from within.
I forced my attention back to the road, grip tightening on the steering wheel. Just an autograph. Get in, get out. Nothing more.
The Mustang roared as I pressed the accelerator, racing against time and my own conflicted desires. Ahead, barely visible through the downtown haze, news helicopters circled like vultures, marking the spot where heaven and hell were about to collide.