“I was worried when you left so abruptly earlier. Are you here for the auction?”

  Of all the people to run into here, why did it have to be the B-rank hunter, Ryan Rowland?

  Then again, the man was the only one who hadn’t tried to swindle Shane out of his reward. He could spare a hello.

  “Perhaps.” Yeah, I am.

  [Behavior Lock] was fucking with him again.

  Who the hell says “perhaps” these days?

  “Well, it’s the height of the auction season, so I thought I’d come have a look,” Ryan said with a friendly smile.

  Must be nice to be born rich.

  Ryan’s easy grin was the kind you wore when you had private doctors on standby for your family and didn’t have to worry about the bill.

  “Hope you at least find what you’re looking for.”

  “One can always hope,” Ryan chuckled, though Shane had no idea what was so funny. “Is there any item you’re interested in the private auction?”

  Shit.

  So when he asked if Shane was here for the auction, he’d been asking about private auction, not this marketplace.

  Shane felt a sharp urge to grab the guy’s perfect silk tie and yank it, but pushed the feeling down. Ryan didn’t seem to mean any harm.

  The private auction required more than just a high rank item. You needed the right family background to score an invitation. In other words, only guys born with silver spoons, like Ryan, could get in. There was a reason he was the face of so many ad campaigns.

  But Shane never figured he’d be this clueless.

  Shane’s status as a nameless, unaffiliated hunter should have been a pretty clear indicator of his financial situation. It was a miracle this guy had managed to avoid any major controversies in his raid videos. Then again, Ryan’s skills were as flashy as you’d expect from a B-rank, and his contribution scores were always consistently high, so the public generally liked him.

  Well,talking with him any further was a waste of time. Shane forced the corners of his mouth up, which was tough with his [Behavior Lock]. “Wasn’t invited.”

  Ryan’s expression shifted. He probably hung out with his rich buddies so much he forgot normal people existed.

  “My mistake, I shouldn’t have assumed. With a performance like that, I was certain you’d received an excellent reward. If you’re interested, why don’t you come with me as my guest?”

  “You?”

  “Yes,” Ryan said, looking a bit embarrassed. “But before you decide to sell it… could you tell me what kind of effect your item has? I don’t mean to impose if it’s a personal matter.”

  Now Shane understood why he was extending the invitation. “It’s a B-rank pendant. Triples your base mana.”

  “Ah, that’s exactly what I need.” Ryan tapped his forehead, lost in thought. “Is there something specific you’re trying to find?”

  “Anything that cuts skill mana cost by half or more.”

  Ryan’s smile faltered for a second. He was puzzled.

  He doesn’t know why I’m min-maxing for efficiency, not chasing bigger numbers.

  But Ryan kept the question to himself. He gave a small nod instead, the kind people use when they decide not to pry.

  “Then… how about this? You come with me to the private auction next week, and we’ll see if the item you want is there. If an item of equal value comes up, I’ll buy it for you. In exchange, you give me your pendant. If the item you want doesn’t show up, you can just keep the pendant. You were planning on using it yourself if you couldn’t sell it, right?”

  Ryan was right. In fact, it was a better deal than Shane could have hoped for.

  To list an item at a private auction, he needed a certificate of authenticity. That meant hiring an appraiser and paying a commission.

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  With auction season in full swing, they would all be booked solid. If Shane had to use the auction house’s in-house appraisers, the fee would be several times higher.

  And the auction would still take its cut at the sale. He could easily end up short on cash for the gear he wanted.

  And usually, when someone offered this kind of “help”, they expected something in return.

  “What’s your cut?” Shane asked.

  Ryan’s eyes went wide, then he laughed.

  “None. Consider it a favor.”

  A favor.

  Shane’s face was kept neutral thanks to the [Behavior Lock], but his mind was racing inside.

  In his old world, a “favor” meant you owed someone a finger. What did a “favor” cost here? A vote? A life?

  Shane couldn’t afford to say no, but he wasn’t going to let his guard down.

  Ryan, seemingly oblivious to Shane’s concern, continued talking.

  “Ah, and I’ll cover the cost of verifying your item with my own money, so you don’t have to worry about that either. The in-house appraisers are on standby at the venue.”

  Shane raised an eyebrow. Ryan just smiled.

  “Being cheap with a man who saved our lives isn’t how my family does things. So, shall we? I believe today is the last day for item registration.”

  Shane looked up and held back a sigh. If he hadn’t gotten over 50% contribution, he wouldn’t have had to go through this in the first place. He checked the time on his watch.

  7:00 PM.

  He had no idea how many hours the mountain of paperwork would take. Desk jobs were never his thing.

  Let’s get this over with.

  ***

  The private rooms sat uptown in a glass-and-limestone tower off Fifth Avenue, a short cab ride from the open auction. Shane went through the revolving doors. The empty lobby reminded him of museums after hours.

  The security sitting at a brushed-steel desk, looked up. When he saw Ryan, he immediately picked up the phone. Thirty seconds later a client manager in a dark suit emerged from the back.

  “Good evening. Welcome back, Hunter Rowland.” She glanced at Shane. “How can I help you tonight?”

  “Certification,” Ryan said. “Private rooms next week.”

  “Of course. Please come with me.”

  She badged them into the Client Services suite and led them down a carpeted hallway flanked by frosted-glass offices. Ahead, the main counter had velvet ropes set up like an airport, only everyone wore suits. Just when Shane thought the wait would take forever to thin, their escort bypassed the queue entirely.

  Shane never cared for high-end places like this. They reminded him of the bodyguard jobs he’d done for politicians. Without thinking, he drifted half a step behind Ryan, watching the exits out of habit.

  Ryan glanced over his shoulder.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No.” Shane caught himself and moved up. He walked ahead of Ryan this time.

  The client manager peeled off to a small reception alcove to the right, where a low counter sat apart from the queue. The woman in that nook slid a slim packet across the desk.

  “We’ll pre-fill most of this,” she said. “ID for the file?”

  Shane passed over his license. The scanner blinked. The receptionist clipped a barcode to the folder and typed.

  “Please sign here and here.”

  Shit.

  Paperwork came in a stack. A two-page intake form for a non-consignment valuation. A short insurance rider that covered the time the item spent on the premises. A handling authorization. An arbitration clause in small print. Current address. Phone. Signature lines for owner of record and authorized presenter. His head was practically spinning.

  But the lines were already highlighted. All Shane had to do was sign where the receptionist pointed.

  Still, he ignored the receptionist’s impatient tapping and scanned the fine print. He was looking for the clauses that would screw him over: Transfer of ownership upon appraisal? Indefinite holding period? Right of first refusal?

  “Is there a problem?” Ryan asked, looking genuinely puzzled.

  Yeah, you’re too nice, Shane thought. But he couldn’t say that.

  “Just reading,” Shane said.

  To his surprise, the contract was clean. Too clean. It looked like a standard non-consignment valuation.

  Shane felt a cold drop in his stomach. He would’ve started sweating, if [Behavior Lock] had allowed it.

  He’d walked in here ready to be gouged, expecting a high commission, a referral fee, or whatever. He was willing to pay it, because selling the B-rank pendant at a private auction—even with fees—would give him much more value than selling it at an open auction or using brokers.

  He would’ve been more comfortable if his worries had been true, a visible trap he could outmaneuver. But an invisible trap could be anything.

  Was there a hidden arbitration clause? Could the pen steal his fingerprint?

  No, he was being stupid.

  He hesitated, the pen hovering over the line.

  But this was the point of no return.

  It brought back memories of the first contract he’d signed, his military enlistment.

  The contract had looked pristine, clean, even beautiful. It promised the world to a kid who had nothing, offering benefits that regular 10-year conscripts could only dream of: a massive pension accumulating in a trust, immunity from civil prosecution for petty crimes like brawls or property damage, and comprehensive free healthcare with priority access.

  He’d learned—a little too late—that there were no good contracts in this world.

  At least the bad contracts were honest thieves. You could see the numbers, you knew the years, and the law set a limit on how much they could take.

  Unlike his contract.

  The pension was pointless since he could never retire.

  The immunity existed not because he was speical, but because you couldn’t sue property, and he was nothing more than a state asset.

  But the priority access to healthcare was the worst trap of all. It didn’t mean he would get treated faster, it had meant he was the guinea pig for every experimental drug and treatment in the pipeline.

  The doctors loved him.

  To them, his hyper-regeneration was the golden key to medical advancements other countries would kill to achieve, allowing them to fail over and over again without ever breaking their favorite test subject.

  He remembered being in the tank, submerged in freezing water, pressure filling his lungs with liquid, the burning agony in his throat as he inhaled water, and the scientists watching through the glass, timing exactly how long it took for his brain to die from hypoxia and then wake up again.