I hit traffic two miles out from Beverly Hills. Cars packed the streets like sardines, everyone crawling toward the spectacle. The clock on my dash read 4:28. I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel, calculating odds.
"Fuck it," I muttered, pulling into a lot three blocks away. The attendant charged me triple the normal rate. Highway robbery, but I forked over the cash anyway.
The streets teemed with people moving toward Rodeo Drive like a human tide. Teenagers, families, suited executives who'd slipped away from offices – all drawn to the same magnetic pull of an S-rank hunter in action. I pushed against the current, weaving between bodies.
Two blocks out, I hit the police barricade. Uniformed officers checked credentials while private security – Scavenger Guild muscle in tactical gear – stood at intervals, hands resting casually on holstered weapons.
A cop held up his hand as I approached. "Hunter Association ID or press credentials only past this point."
I reached for my wallet, pulled out the laminated D-rank card I hadn't used in months. The cop glanced at it, then at me, doubt written across his face.
"This you?"
"It's me." I kept my voice neutral.
He studied the card again. "D-rank support personnel?"
"That's what it says."
He handed it back with obvious skepticism. "Stay behind the yellow markers. Any interference with the operation is a federal offense."
I nodded, slipping past him into more tightly packed territory. Here, the crowd condensed into a solid wall of bodies, all straining toward a central point where television lights created an artificial sun.
I spotted a gap between a group of teenage girls and an older couple, then slipped through sideways. People grumbled as I navigated forward, using my shoulders to create space where none existed.
"Hey, wait your turn!"
"Back of the line, asshole."
I ignored them, eyes locked on the next opening, the next weak point in the human barricade. I had a knack for finding paths through chaos – seeing the structure beneath the disorder.
A reporter with a camera crew blocked my path. I ducked under a boom mic, sidestepped a tripod, and kept moving. The crowd grew denser still. Bodies pressed against me from all sides, sweat and perfume and excitement creating a heady cocktail in the afternoon heat.
I reached a row of metal barriers about thirty feet from the main staging area. Beyond them, the actual gate pulsed with unnatural blue light, casting strange shadows across the designer storefronts of Rodeo Drive.
A security guard watched me approach. I flashed my ID before he could ask, and he waved me through with barely a glance. Sloppy. The Scavengers might be the premier guild in America, but their hired muscle needed better training.
The staging area buzzed with activity. Technicians monitored equipment while Association officials in suits conferred in small groups. Medical personnel stood ready near a row of ambulances – standard procedure, though an S-rank like Kafka would hardly need backup for a B-rank gate.
I spotted her immediately.
She stood in the center of it all, a gravity well pulling all attention toward her. The wine-red hair, the spider-emblazoned jacket draped over her shoulders, the casual confidence that radiated from her like heat. A microphone with the EHPN logo was just being pulled away from her face as a reporter thanked her profusely.
Kafka smiled – a practiced, camera-ready expression – and turned to wave at the crowd. The response was immediate and deafening. Screams and cheers erupted from all sides. Signs bearing her name or simply spider symbols shot into the air.
Behind her, a team of hunters in Scavenger Guild gear checked equipment and weapons. Fifteen of them, all looking like A-ranks or high B-ranks. Massive overkill for this level of gate. Pure spectacle.
I hung back, watching. Kafka moved toward the barricade where fans strained forward with phones and memorabilia. Security created a corridor for her as she began signing autographs, posing for selfies, accepting gifts.
The adoration was palpable. Men and women alike reached for her with desperate hands, faces flushed with a hunger that went beyond celebrity worship. Some whispered things that made her smile that camera-ready smile, though her eyes remained coolly amused.
I almost turned to leave. This wasn't my world. Never had been, never would be. I could tell Noel I'd tried and failed. She'd be disappointed but would understand.
Then Kafka's head snapped up. Her gaze swept the crowd, sharp and sudden like a predator sensing movement. It passed over faces, searching, until it landed directly on me.
Our eyes locked. Her expression shifted – surprise, then intense curiosity. She tilted her head slightly, like a bird of prey considering something unexpected.
She said something to her security, then moved through the crowd. People reached for her, but she slipped past them untouched. Moving directly toward me.
I stood frozen, trapped by her approach and the sudden attention it drew. Fans turned to see who had captured her interest. Their expressions darkened when they saw me – a construction worker in dusty jeans and a sweat-stained t-shirt.
She stopped three feet away. This close, I could see the faint electric current that seemed to run beneath her skin, making her eyes glow that unnerving wine-red.
"Your energy signature is... unique," she said. Her voice carried a slight accent – Japanese undertones beneath perfect American English.
I blinked. "Thank you?"
Her eyes narrowed, studying me like I was a puzzle with missing pieces. "That wasn't necessarily a compliment."
The crowd around us had gone quiet, hanging on every word. I felt their collective hatred boring into my back. The unworthy recipient of their goddess's attention.
"My sister asked me to get your autograph," I said, desperate to break the tension. "She's a fan."
That seemed to snap Kafka out of whatever analysis she'd been running. Her expression softened into something more human, more amused.
"Of course. I'd be happy to."
I patted my pockets, then my jeans. Empty. No paper, no pen, nothing for her to sign. I hadn't actually planned to succeed.
"I didn't bring anything," I admitted.
Kafka laughed – a genuine sound, nothing like her camera-ready smile. It transformed her face completely.
"Give me your arm," she said.
I hesitated, then extended my right arm. She took it, her fingers cool against my skin. From a pocket, she produced a marker, uncapped it with her teeth, and wrote across my forearm in flowing script. Her name, followed by a small heart and a spider drawing.
"What's your name?" she asked, recapping the marker.
"Dante," I lied, the first name that popped into my head.
She raised an eyebrow, clearly not believing me. "Dante," she repeated, amusement coloring her voice. "Well, tell your sister I appreciate her support."
A voice called from behind her. One of the Scavenger team leaders, pointing at his watch.
Kafka nodded. "Duty calls." She turned back to me. "Perhaps we'll meet again... Dante."
She moved away toward the gate, jacket fluttering behind her like wings. The team of hunters fell into formation around her as they approached the pulsing blue tear in reality.
I became acutely aware of the murderous stares from the fans surrounding me. Phones pointed in my direction, capturing the inexplicable interaction between an S-rank celebrity and a nobody.
Time to go.
I backed away, moving toward the exit as Kafka and her team disappeared into the gate. The blue light flared brighter for a moment, casting strange shadows across the street, then settled into its steady pulse.
I didn't wait around to watch the show. Slipping past security, I moved quickly through the thinning crowd, keeping my arm with Kafka's signature carefully angled away from grabbing hands and jealous eyes.
The drive home was a blur. Radio stations buzzed with play-by-play of the gate clearing, but I kept the volume low, mind replaying the strange encounter. Your energy signature is unique. What the hell did that mean?
I pulled into our apartment complex at 6:17. Our studio sat on the third floor of a building that had seen better days, but the rent was manageable and the landlord didn't ask questions when our parents' names disappeared from the lease.
Noel pounced the moment I walked through the door.
"You went! I saw you on the livestream!" She grabbed my shoulders, her black-painted nails digging in. "Why didn't you text me back? What was she like? Why did she single you out? What did she say to you? The forums are going crazy trying to figure out who you are!"
I shrugged off her grip, dropping my keys on the counter. "One question at a time, Jesus."
"The signature! Did you get it?"
I extended my arm, showing her Kafka's flowing script. Noel's eyes widened to perfect circles.
"She signed your arm? With a heart?" Her voice rose an octave. "Xavier, do you have any idea how rare that is? She never adds hearts. Never."
"Guess I'm special," I said dryly, heading for the fridge. I pulled out a beer, popped the top, and took a long drink.
Noel grabbed her laptop, typing furiously. "You're trending. #MysteryMan is number three on Twitter. People are losing their minds trying to figure out who caught Mother Kafka's attention."
"Great."
"You don't understand. She doesn't do this. Ever." Noel turned the screen toward me, showing a clip of our interaction from someone's phone. The quality was poor, but you could clearly see Kafka approaching me, speaking, taking my arm. "What did you say to her?"
"Nothing. She came up to me, said something about my 'energy signature' being unique, whatever that means. I asked for the autograph, she signed, end of story."
Noel stared at me. "Energy signature?"
"That's what she said."
She closed the laptop slowly, her expression unreadable. "Did you tell her your name?"
"I told her Dante."
"You lied to an S-rank hunter. To Mother Kafka." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Of course you did."
I drank more beer. "It doesn't matter. It was a one-time thing. Publicity stunt, probably. Pick some random guy from the crowd, make him feel special, good for brand engagement or whatever."
Noel shook her head. "You don't believe that."
"What I believe is that I need a shower and about twelve hours of sleep." I headed toward the bathroom, then paused. "You got what you wanted. The autograph. Let's leave it at that."
"Xavier." Noel's voice had gone strange, tight. "S-ranks can sense things normal people can't. Things other hunters can't. If she noticed something about you..."
"Don't start." I felt a headache forming behind my eyes. "I'm a D-rank. Barely that. I haul lumber and swing hammers for a living."
"Dad always said you had potential—"
"Dad's dead." The words came out sharper than I intended. "Along with his theories about my 'potential.' I'm not having this conversation again."
I closed the bathroom door before she could respond, turning on the shower to drown out any reply. As steam filled the small space, I stared at Kafka's signature on my arm. The flowing script, the heart, the spider.
Your energy signature is unique.
I stepped into the shower, watching as the hot water hit the marker, making the ink run in red-black rivulets down my skin and into the drain. In minutes, it was gone – washed away like it had never existed.
Just like I wanted.