I set my jaw, raise the shovel, and get back to work.
Iwake to a wall of sunlight stabbing directly into my skull.
Hotel rooms always do this.
All that pristine, expensive blackout technology…and somehow the light still finds one microscopic gap in the curtains and aims for my face like it holds a grudge.
I groan, roll to the side, and pat the nightstand until my fingers find the crystal tumbler I never bothered to wash. There’s still a swallow of whiskey at the bottom. With one eye squeezed shut against the glare, I tip it back.
The burn kicks straight down my throat.
“That’ll pep you up,” I croak.
I flop onto my stomach, arms wrapped loosely around the pillow, letting out a long breath that sinks into the mattress. My eyes fall shut almost immediately. Sleep drags at me in warm, heavy waves, whispering that a few more minutes won’t hurt anyone.
My shoulders ache—a dull, satisfying throb from hacking at packed earth with a shovel the size of a toddler’s toy—but last night’s hot shower and the bowl of tofutempura ramen I ordered from room service worked miracles. Nothing knocks me out faster than salt, heat, and fermented soybeans. I’m soft like that.
Master Kenji lives only a couple hours’ drive from here. Plenty of time to rest before I see him. He’ll probably scold me for letting my form get sloppy, then feed me until I can’t breathe. The man only knows discipline and hospitality.
I let myself drift.
Almost asleep again.
Then the buzzing starts.
One vibration.
Then another.
Then another.
A relentless, mosquito-like drone coming from the phone beside my head—each buzz sharpening into a tiny spike of irritation. If this keeps up, my “no murders” vow from last night is going straight into the trash.
I grope blindly for the phone, intending to silence it, but the screen lights up before I can swipe.
A whole string of notifications. All from the Guild app.
That wakes me up faster than the whiskey.
I blink the sleep from my eyes and scroll through them. Looks like the message boards are losing their collective minds about something—reacting in real time, half chaos, half enthusiasm, exactly like assassins on the internet always are.
“Damn, they’re not playing.”
“Biggest bounty I’ve seen in years.”
“Biggest bounty in Guild history, numb nuts.”
“Worth the risk?”
“For this payout? Hell yes.”
“Wanna buddy up on this one? 50/50?”
“Fuck yes, brother.”
“Someone’s about to get smoked.”
I snort under my breath. Vultures. Give them a juicy contract and they salivate like it’s treat time at the zoo. The Guild tries to pretend we’re professionals, but the message boards always expose the truth.
