Steven slumped on Maria's couch, blood seeping through his shirt from the gash along his side. His backpack, ripped and caked with dust, lay at his feet.
The system's glowing screen hovered before him, flashing [Task Completed]. He scowled at it.
"Nice one, system," he muttered, voice barely audible. "Dropped me into Titan central with zero heads-up. One-star difficulty? I nearly got flattened." His hands trembled, but he clenched them tight.
The screen didn't blink. He huffed, glancing at the clock—7:32 a.m. Maria could barge in any minute, expecting the guy she'd left, not this bloodied wreck. His side throbbed, a red stain spreading on the cushion. "She'll think I'm a serial killer," he said under his breath.
He stood, legs wobbly, and snagged a dish towel from the kitchen. Pressing it to the wound, he winced as it soaked crimson. The cushion was a mess. He flipped it—clean side up, though a faint red streak lingered. "Close enough," he said, tucking the towel under his shirt. He nudged his backpack behind the couch, hiding the grime.
The system chimed. [Seek medical care. Infection risk: 22%.]
"Stuff it," he whispered. "You didn't care when Titans were lunching." He ignored it, eyeing the bathroom down the hall. He had to clean up before Maria showed.
In the bathroom, he locked the door and peeled off his shirt. The gash stretched from ribs to hip—ugly, but not deep. Cold water stung as he scrubbed with soap, hissing through his teeth. No bandages in sight, so he ripped a strip from his shirt and knotted it around his torso. Sloppy, but it'd hold.
Back on the couch, he sat gingerly, keeping the wound still. Maria could roll in any second—she'd said noon, but she wasn't the waiting type. Explaining this? No chance.
"System," he said softly, "how do I play this?"
[*Ding!*]
[Suggestion: Request aid from 5th_Hokage.]
"Hell yeah," he said, nodding. "Tsunade's the healing queen. If anyone's got a fix, it's her." He pulled up the chat, keeping it crisp, no groveling.
[Admin_Tarnished: Yo, 5th_Hokage, you around? Need something for a cut and to clean blood off a couch. Send 'em over, and I'll hook you up with more sake—premium stuff.]
He sent it, easing back, the gash's sting biting through his focus. "C'mon, Tsunade."
Five minutes later, the screen pinged. He straightened, wincing as his side protested. Tsunade's reply glowed.
[5th_Hokage: Head's pounding. That sake you sent was lethal—out cold all night.]
[5th_Hokage: Got salve for cuts and a scroll for blood stains, but how do I send? This screen's a mess.]
Tsunade blitzed on his sake was a flex, but her tech struggles meant babysitting. He typed quick.
[Admin_Tarnished: Love that you enjoyed the sake. To send, hold the salve and scroll, think of me—Admin_Tarnished—and tap 'Send to User' when it pops up. Easy. Do it, and I'll get you two bottles, top-tier.]
He sent it, hoping her hangover wasn't too brutal. The gash had slowed its bleed, but it looked rough, and the couch stain screamed evidence. He needed her gear fast.
Another ping.
[5th_Hokage: Figured it out. Sent salve—stops bleeding quick—and a scroll for stains. Scrub it, no water.]
[Item Received: Healing Salve (50g). Retrieve? Y/N]
[Item Received: Cleaning Scroll (1 use). Retrieve? Y/N]
"Score," Steven said, hitting Y for both. A small clay jar and a thin scroll materialized on the couch. The jar was cool, the scroll light, marked with faint symbols he couldn't parse. "Tsunade's legit," he muttered, cracking the jar. It smelled sharp, like crushed herbs.
He locked himself in the bathroom again, unwrapping the shirt strip. The gash was raw, blood tacky. He slathered the salve thick. It stung, then cooled fast, the bleeding halting like a switch flipped. "That's the stuff," he said, binding a fresh towel tight around his middle. The cut already looked less pissed off.
Back in the living room, he unrolled the scroll. Weird markings, but Tsunade said scrub, no water. The couch's red smear was still damp. He dragged the scroll over it, half-braced for nothing. The stain vanished, sucked into the paper like a magic trick. Ten seconds, and the cushion was spotless. "Ninja shit," he said, shaking his head. He chucked the scroll behind the couch with his bag.
The salve had his side near normal—no pain, just a faint tug. Tsunade's scroll saved the couch, meaning Maria wouldn't roast him. He still needed a cover story. Mugging, play it grateful, keep it chill. The daisies on the counter were his ace—she'd thawed for them.
Keys rattled outside. Steven sat up, raking his hair back, ready to talk. Maria walked in, takeout bag in hand, jacket slung over her arm. Her eyes caught the towel under his shirt, then the cushion's faint damp spot.
"Still here," she said, setting the bag by the daisies. "What's with the towel?"
"Got jumped," he said, flashing a quick grin. "Couple of punks—nicked my side. Patched it, cleaned up. Didn't want to trash your place."
Maria stepped closer, studying him. "Jumped. You look like hell, Steven."
"Bad day," he said, shrugging. "Ran, hit a fence."
Her stare lingered, then she sighed. "You're a magnet for trouble." She grabbed a glass from the kitchen. "Stay put. Got a kit upstairs."
"Thanks, Maria," he said, leaning back. "Means a lot."
"Don't get comfy," she said, heading up, sounding more tired than mad.
She came down with a first-aid kit, tossing gauze on the couch. "Shirt up," she said, all business.
He lifted his shirt, careful not to mess the salve. Maria knelt close, her fingers brushing his side as she checked the gash. Her touch was light, practiced, taping gauze with precision. Up close, she smelled like coffee and leather, her face focused, jaw set. Time to test the waters.
"So," he said, voice casual, "you got someone out there waiting? Boyfriend, maybe?"
Her hands stilled for a beat. She glanced up, eyes narrowing, but a spark—maybe amusement—flickered. "Nobody," she said, resuming the tape. "Why? You signing up?"
He grinned, tilting closer. "Could be. You're tough to miss, y'know. Badass, but… easy on the eyes."
She snorted, finishing the bandage and pulling back. "Real slick, Steven." Her voice was dry, but she held his gaze a second too long, not retreating. "Cut's fine. Lucky. No more brawls, clear?"
"Clear," he said, still grinning. She hadn't iced him out—progress. He dropped his shirt, the gauze snug. "Thanks for the patch-up. You didn't have to."
"Yeah, I did," she said, standing. "Not letting you ruin my couch." She grabbed a bagel from the bag, tossing him one. "Eat. You look half-dead."
He caught it—sesame, still warm—and bit in. Maria sat opposite, chewing hers, her eyes drifting to him now and then. She didn't buy his story, he knew it. A real fight would've left marks—cuts, bruises, scuffed knuckles. His hands were clean, his sneakers pristine. She'd clocked it, probably the second she walked in. But she let it slide, and he figured it was him—the daisies, the coffee, keeping things light. Maybe she liked him enough to skip the third degree.
"So," he said, swallowing, "Rico. What's his deal? You said he's got a spot?"
Maria nodded, brushing crumbs off her fingers. "Wyckoff. Basic room, no ID needed. He's gruff, but he'll play ball if you stay quiet."
"Sounds like my speed," he said. "I'm good at laying low."
Her brow arched, skeptical. "Right. Just don't show up looking like a crime scene." She nodded at his shirt, the towel's bulge still there.
She stood, pulling a scrap of paper from her pocket. "Rico's number. Call before noon, or you're screwed."
He took it, their fingers grazing for a blink. "Thanks. I owe you big."
"You owe me a new couch if you bleed again," she said, heading to the kitchen. "Lock up when you leave."
He nodded, tucking the number away. Maria's doubt hung in the air—her pauses, the way she'd eyed the "fence" excuse. She could've ripped it apart, demanded details, pressed why he wasn't roughed up. She didn't. The charm helped—dishes, daisies, coffee—but that "nobody" line stuck. Single, not shutting him down. Room to move.
Clock read 9:30 a.m. He stood, testing his side—slight tug, no sting. The salve was gold. He grabbed his backpack, double-checking the scroll and salve were buried inside. No loose ends. The system pinged.
[New Task: Meet Contact Rico by 14:00. Location: Wyckoff Ave. Reward: Safe Haven.]
"Typical," he muttered, swiping it off. At least it wasn't a death match. He snagged another bagel, heading for the door. Maria was rinsing her mug, back turned. He wanted to say something, keep the spark alive, but she'd told him to go. Don't overplay it.
He glanced at the daisies. "Nice move," he said to himself, locking the door behind him. Brooklyn buzzed—horns, chatter, alive. He kept his head down, Rico's number in his pocket. Maria hadn't bought his lie, but she'd let him walk. That was enough.
He dialed Rico as he moved. Two rings, then a rough voice answered. "Who's this?"
"Steven," he said, steady. "Maria sent me. Said you've got a place on Wyckoff."
A beat. "She did, huh? Diner on Wyckoff, two o'clock. Don't flake."
"Got it." The line died. Steven pocketed the phone, scanning the street. Two hours to kill, and he needed to ditch the towel once the gash settled. His shirt was passable, but the bulge screamed trouble.
He leaned against a wall, catching his breath. "Hold up," he said. "System, where's my Titan reward? I didn't bleed for nothing."
[*Ding!*]
[Inventory: Enhanced Reflexes (Claimable), Memory Flash Drive (Usable - Uploads one skill, e.g., parkour, combat, navigation, to muscle memory)]
Steven grinned. "There we go." Reflexes meant sharper moves, quicker ducks. The flash drive was tougher—one shot at a game-changer. Parkour for escapes, combat for fights, navigation for not getting lost. Big choice.
"Claim Enhanced Reflexes," he said.
[Enhanced Reflexes Activated. Reaction speed increased 20%.]