"I'm gonna lay down a set of rules, and they are strictly mandatory," Junior said, planting his fists on the table and putting on his most intimidating glare. Standing at over six and a half feet tall, that would normally be an easy feat, but Egrer wasn't scared; he had a literal mountain of muscle sitting right next to him. "Rule number one: nobody finds out you're a Faunus."
This arrogant, disrespectful demand outraged Egrer, especially since making it public knowledge was a core part of his grand plan. But he couldn't exactly just say "no" right now.
"I promise I won't go around shouting it from the rooftops. But if someone asks, I'll tell them the truth."
Hei glared deep into his eyes but, after a second, nodded. Junior himself wasn't a racist, but the same couldn't be said for all of his clientele.
"Rule number two: you play what's popular. I don't need to lose customers over your weird tastes. You're going to sing stuff like this." He waved a hand toward DJ Bear, who was currently spinning a track by the pop group Almond from his booth.
The mere thought of singing mindless pop music left a taste of vomit in Egrer's mouth, but the climb to the top had to start somewhere.
"You just said you barely make any money off the regular crowd anyway, so what difference does it make?"
"Money is money, kid, whether it's a little or a lot."
What a hypocrite, Egrer thought. Just minutes ago, Junior was claiming that even massive crowds of regular clubbers didn't matter to his bottom line.
Junior fell silent, clearly trying to brainstorm more rules to make Egrer's life difficult. But he either couldn't think of any other ways to screw him over, or he simply decided not to push his luck. Being too arrogant right now was a dangerous luxury for both of them.
"Hei, what are your thoughts on pyrotechnics?" Egrer flashed a dashing grin.
"No! Absolutely not!"
"Oh, come on! What's a rock concert without jets of flame and a few explosions?" Egrer mimed a small explosion with his hands. Nothing too big, just enough to get Junior to consider it.
"No. What's the difference if you blow up my club or your mother does it?"
"You're wrong." Hei frowned, clearly having no intention of arguing the point. "But I understand and accept your position. Have it your way."
"You can burn things down at Beacon all you want, but I run a closed indoor venue here. Now, let's talk pay."
"Eg." Magenta tugged at his sleeve and looked at him with pleading puppy-dog eyes. "Are you guys going to be much longer? Can I go dance? I'm boooored..."
"Yeah, sure. Yort will go with you." It was better to be left without their resident bruiser than to let some scumbag try hitting on this innocent creature.
With his pack gone, Junior's posture shifted. It was no longer amusing; the crowd of his goons suddenly looked like they were ready to jump Egrer at a moment's notice. Even if Egrer was on friendly terms with most of them, the boss's word was law.
"Alright, the money," Egrer reminded him, trying with all his might to suppress his idiotic smile—Junior knew it was a sign of his nervousness. He couldn't show weakness now! "A hundred Lien an hour?"
"You think you're going to be playing here all night long?" Junior asked. Egrer nodded in surprise, assuming that was obvious. "Hell no. I don't need that kind of headache. We open at eleven. You sing until midnight, and then you beat it. And don't even think about showing up on weekends."
"But the weekends are when you have the biggest crowds! And it's only for one hour!"
"Yeah, I know." The mobster smirked. Just as Egrer was about to threaten him with 'Mom' again, Junior hastily waved his hands. "Alright, alright, I understand that needs to be compensated. I offer five hundred Lien per working day."
"Deal," the world-famous musician of the near future agreed instantly.
Damn it! Egrer mentally cursed. The main goal was PR, and how much PR am I gonna get playing for one hour in an empty club?!
But he could worry about the PR campaign later; finding easy money like this was much harder. For a split second, Egrer felt ashamed of his own greed, but he quickly blamed it on his poor upbringing. Growing up among thieves didn't exactly foster the traits of a model citizen.
They shook hands.
"Alright, fess up. Why the sudden generosity?"
"Pfft, it's called calculation, kid, not generosity. At eleven, the place is practically dead, which means I won't lose any customers because of some weirdos on stage. And if I don't lose them, they'll keep bringing me money, and that amount is definitely more than five hundred Lien."
And, crucially, a certain unhinged, overly affectionate woman would steer clear of his club, allowing him to continue living his life—a fact so obvious to both of them that it didn't even need to be said out loud.
"Do you seriously think I'm going to scare everyone off? You have a very low opinion of my skills." Egrer crossed his arms, hiding the urge to reach for the guitar on his back. If Baby had been with him, he would have played a riff right then and there to show off his vocals and sick guitar skills.
But for now, all he could do was grumble in annoyance and wait for tomorrow night. Then this bitter, paranoid mobster would be blown away!
"Let me remind you—I run a club, and nobody needs your music here."
These mocking words mercilessly clawed at Egrer's fragile artistic soul like a Grimm. Now that the deal was struck and hands were shaken, Junior was free to openly flaunt his nasty personality.
Offended and angry, Egrer stood up and practically yelled:
"You'll see! I'll breathe life into that dead hour, and you'll have a line out the door before opening just so people don't miss a single one of my songs!" He turned around proudly and marched toward the exit, planning to intercept his pack on the way.
"Don't forget to collect your scrawny friend!" Junior shouted after him. Egrer paused for a second and hastily corrected his course. "And the songs aren't even yours!"
The insulted musician stoically ignored that last remark.
As he walked past one of Junior's goons stationed near the bathroom door, Egrer heard a chuckle. A snide, mocking chuckle. His patience had finally reached its limit. Egrer spun a full one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and unleashed a deep, guttural wolf growl right in the thug's face.
The goon flinched and took a step back. There wasn't genuine terror in his movements—he recoiled the way one does from a loud, unexpected sound. A second later, the idiot pretended nothing had happened, hiding both his chuckle and his flinch.
Egrer, satisfied with the impression his Faunus heritage had made, marched on and immediately rolled his eyes.
From one of the stalls, someone was loudly reciting mantras to calm the spirit, soul, and mind. The voice was trembling so violently it sounded like there was a giant Grimm locked in there with him. Or, more likely, a socially anxious guy experiencing a severe panic attack triggered by agoraphobia and claustrophobia.
Raising his hand high above the stall door, Egrer decided at the last second to take pity on his friend. Instead of the planned thunderous banging—which would have surely sent Illmond's soul packing to an isekai world (or whatever it is he believed in)—he opted for a gentle knock with his knuckles. Just so he wouldn't die of a heart attack.
"R-R-REEEEEEE!!!"
A high-pitched, girly shriek deafened Egrer. For a second, he actually thought he had walked into the wrong bathroom. But why would some girl scream like that over a simple knock?
"Stop yelling!..." Egrer didn't even get to finish his sentence before the door of the neighboring stall practically exploded outward.
A man burst out—the same guy Illmond had bumped into twice earlier. With one hand, he was desperately trying to hold up his sagging pants; with the other, he was drunkenly swinging a massive, motherfucking combat scythe.
"B-bandits! F-fuckin' b-bandits everywhere!..."
He wasn't just drunk. He was absolutely, completely, unequivocally shitfaced! His bloodshot eyes could barely focus on a single point, and his total loss of spatial awareness and motor control nearly ended his drunken saga in the most common way possible—face-first into the tile floor. Egrer had no idea what to do. This was the first time in his life he was being charged by a wasted Huntsman with his pants half-down and a giant scythe.
In a desperate attempt to keep from falling, the drunkard slammed his weapon down. The blade embedded itself an inch from Egrer's terrified face, burying itself up to the hilt in the very stall door behind which Illmond was now screaming bloody murder.
"AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!" Well, if he's screaming, he's alive. And maybe even okay.
The drunkard unsuccessfully yanked at his scythe, but he was so weakened by the booze that it was a miracle he was even standing, let alone fighting. His bloodshot little eyes rolled from side to side, just like his body. He also seemed to be seeing not just one Egrer, but several. Eventually, he lost his balance, tangled his feet, and loudly thumped his graying head against the door.
He began to mumble, barely coherent:
"So, y-you scumbags... all you can do is p-pick on l-little girls, huh? You... hic... you understand?!"
"I didn't understand a damn word, man! Calm down, you're drunk!" Egrer blurted out the first thing that came to mind, instantly regretting it. You should never tell a drunk, raging man with Huntsman training that he's drunk.
"I'M S-SOBER!!" He gripped the scythe handle with both hands, and his pants immediately dropped to his ankles.
But that was the least of Egrer's worries. The man yanked his weapon with all his Huntsman strength, ripping the scythe free—along with the entire stall door. Inside, sitting on the floor and tearing his vocal cords in a panicked wail, was Illmond.
The drunkard lost his footing again, tripped, and crashed directly into a urinal, smashing it into tiny porcelain shards and heavily denting the wall behind it. A pressurized stream of water instantly blasted him in his furious face, pinning the lunatic to the floor.
What a loser. Egrer might have even felt sorry for him if the guy hadn't just tried to kill them.
Egrer didn't wait for the psycho to get back up. Grabbing the screaming Illmond, he bolted for the exit. But just as he reached for the handle, the door was kicked open from the other side, slamming into his face with inhuman force. Egrer dropped to the floor, clutching his burning nose and whining quietly. The gangster who had kicked the door tripped over Egrer's body and fell face-first, followed by a pileup of several other goons.
"B-bandits! P-protect Amber... I'll f-fuckin' k-kill 'em!"
The man staggered to his feet. Pants-less and wielding a massive combat scythe, he evoked mixed feelings—Egrer equally wanted to laugh hysterically and run for his life.
"Holy shit, that's Branwen! And he's wasted!"
At the sound of that name, the pile of bodies panicked. Like a single, writhing organism, the goons scrambled out into the main hall, dragging Egrer and Illmond with them. A whole crowd of Junior's thugs, including the boss himself, was already waiting. The regular patrons, meanwhile, were actively fleeing the premises. Though a few individuals, surrounded by small convoys of bodyguards, were calmly strolling out while puffing on cigars—probably mafia bosses.
"Barricade the door!" the club owner yelled. He tried to grab Egrer by the collar, but Egrer, running on pure adrenaline, dodged him. "What did you do this time?! Why do you and your psychotic family hate my club so much?!"
"It wasn't me! That psycho attacked me out of nowhere! And he's not my family, I've never seen him in my life!"
"Eg!" Yort and Magenta came running over. "What the hell is going on?"
While Egrer hastily explained the absolute clusterfuck that was unfolding, Junior's thugs were gathering furniture for the barricade from the closest available source—the women's restroom, located just two steps away. Standing in an organized line, they passed stall doors, mirrors, and eventually toilets and sinks down the human chain. Those who didn't have a spot in the line were pulling fire axes off the walls and distributing them. It felt like they did this on a regular basis, and their initial panic was just from the surprise.
On the other side of the bathroom door, the Huntsman was raging, screaming something about an ambush and a girl named Amber. Clearly, PTSD combined with a heavy dose of alcohol was a volatile mix. But nobody cared what he was babbling about; everyone's attention was hyper-focused on the blade of the combat scythe that periodically smashed through their barricade.
"Madge, do you think you can calm him down?" Egrer asked, holding out zero hope for a "yes".
"Why me?!" Ah, the correct response. If only she acted this normal more often.
"Because you're very sweet, and he might, just maybe, calm down. Come on, it's not your first time!" He started pushing the resisting girl toward the rapidly shrinking barricade, but Yort stopped him.
"Hold up. Maybe we should just bail?" he whispered in Egrer's ear, side-eying Junior, who was commanding the defensive line.
It was an incredibly tempting idea. After all, this was Hei's customer, so it was his mess to clean up. They had shaken hands and made a deal; Junior wouldn't break it and ruin his reputation as an info broker.
Egrer spun around, grabbed Magenta, and started pushing her in the opposite direction. Pushing her, because she was still resisting!
"Where are you dragging me?! He needs help!"
"Madge, not right now," Yort hissed, hauling Illmond—who was currently reciting mantras—over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Judging by the artist's wild, unfocused eyes and the way he clutched his head, trying to talk to him right now was useless. "The Dark God cursed us the moment we stepped into this shithole."
If it weren't for their two lagging teammates, Egrer and Yort would have broken into a dead sprint. Even so, Egrer's pack crossed half the club in mere seconds.
"Where d-do you think you're g-goin', b-bandits?!"
The barricade exploded outward as if hit by a bomb, sending Junior's men flying in all directions. The lucky ones scrambled away, dragging their unconscious comrades with them.
Suddenly, Magenta slipped on something and crashed to the floor, taking the rest of the pack down with her. And that turned out to be the luckiest thing to happen all night! Because a split second later, a bullet whistled right through the space where their heads had been, slamming into the wall and exploding in blue flames.
Then DJ Bear pulled out his heavy Dust automated turret. Swapping the pop track for some hardcore heavy-metal-dubstep-punk-rock, he began spraying the Huntsman with electric rounds to the beat of the vocalist's screaming.
"Hic! I-I don't even feel that!"
The shameless drunk used a porcelain toilet bowl as a shield. The bullets hitting him left nothing but bruises, and he used that same toilet to bash Junior's thugs over the head. He had apparently left his scythe in the bathroom.
"Hey, Branwen!" Hei yelled, hoisting his bat—which doubled as a rocket launcher—onto his shoulder. "If you don't calm down right now, you are banned from my club!"
The brawler responded by throwing a urinal at him.
"Branwen?!" Yort suddenly exclaimed. "Is he somehow related to Raven Branwen?"
"Do not say that cursed name!" yelled not only Egrer, but every gangster within earshot.
"Forget it, Eg. We're not running. This guy needs to get his ass beat!" the Vacuo killer yelled, seemingly mesmerized by the sheer volume of this guy's Aura.
"Hold it! You don't stand a chance against a fully-fledged Huntsman!"
"I know!"
What is wrong with this sick bastard?! He hated losing, yet he constantly threw himself at absolute monsters! And then he'd spend the next week giving the whole pack a headache with his bruised ego. To take down a beast like that, you needed specialized weaponry. Even DJ Joe's Dust turret wasn't doing much damage.
Egrer wanted to lunge after Yort, but he was nearly bowled over by a flying mobster who had lost his cool sunglasses and now just looked like a terrified civilian. The guy crashed into the wall right next to the fire alarm and slid down, head-first.
In a raspy voice, he wheezed:
"The button... push it... or else..."
His quiet voice was perfectly audible even over the screaming speakers, the yells of the gangsters, and the roars of the drunkard himself. But what the "or else" was, the mobster never got to finish. It was clear, however, that things were about to get very bad.
"Madge, keep an eye on Ill for a sec. You can calm that Huntsman down later, okay?" The girl smiled, nodded, and hugged the catatonic Illmond, whispering soothing words to him. Egrer was terrified to leave those two unsupervised for even a second in a situation like this, but finding out what "or else" meant scared him even more.
With one leap, Egrer reached the fire alarm and slammed his fist into it, shattering the glass and crushing the plastic casing.
But instead of fire-retardant foam raining from the ceiling, panels all across the walls flipped one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, revealing some seriously heavy-duty, lethal weaponry.
A logical question popped into his head: Is Junior really an information broker, or is he actually an arms dealer?
Egrer watched, jaw dropping, as the gangsters closest to the walls dropped their axes and grabbed the deadly firearms. No, wait, Egrer used his brain—this kind of chaos apparently happened here a lot. If Junior murdered every drunk Huntsman who caused a scene, he'd be rotting in a high-security prison by now. Which meant those guns were likely loaded with Electric or Ice Dust rounds, or maybe shot electrified nets.
"Qrow! I am so sorry!"
Suddenly, just as Junior's men were about to snatch victory from the jaws of this "Branwen" (along with his actual jaw), a pretty-boy blonde burst into the club, yelling an apology. It wasn't entirely clear who he was apologizing to, but a second later, he moved with the speed of lightning, tackling the pants-less drunk and pinning him face-first into the shattered tile. Along the way, he casually shoved Yort aside. The giant slid several meters across the floor and smacked his head against the wall. Judging by the creative profanities he unleashed, Yort was perfectly fine.
No one had even managed to fire a single shot from the arsenal the fire alarm had provided. The blonde guy was almost certainly a Huntsman himself, given that he was flashing a wide, easygoing smile while being held at gunpoint by about twenty heavy turrets.
"Hei, Junior!" he drawled amicably.
Egrer winced. He genuinely thought he was the only one clever enough to use that pun. Turns out, it wasn't exactly a stroke of comedic genius.
"Please forgive my buddy here..."
"To you, it's not 'Hei, Junior!'. It's Mr. Xiong." The mobster dramatically hoisted his rocket launcher back onto his shoulder, looking simultaneously insulted and proud.
Egrer thought it was probably a bad look to conduct serious negotiations while lying on the floor.
"Madge, Ill, come on, get up." Magenta completely ignored his words, continuing to stroke the traumatized sociophobe's back.
Illmond was rocking back and forth, looking like a block of marble—that's how petrified and pale he was from the stress. Muttering some cultist nonsense about "sacrificing the mind" and the "inner flow of the soul," he stared blankly at his boots, completely unresponsive. Illmond had always been highly sensitive. It took him a long time to recover from shock, usually accompanied by hysterics. Sometimes he'd even try to bite or throw punches. Before meeting Magenta, Egrer hadn't had a clue how to handle him.
But whether she possessed that mysterious "Moe power" Illmond refused to elaborate on, or she was just naturally gifted at playing therapist, their pessimistic artist—who was eternally apathetic to everything except his myriad phobias—felt at peace around her.
"And who's going to pay for this?" Junior swept a hand over the ruined hall—shattered glass columns, DJ Joe's wrecked equipment, and a thick layer of glass covering the floor. Even Egrer felt slightly sick; his hands were itching to start a massive cleanup.
The groaning bodies on the floor began to whimper and wail louder, sensing that this was exactly what the Boss expected of them. As the blond Huntsman took in the post-apocalyptic atmosphere of destruction, someone whimpered:
"My legs, they're broken... What do I do, brother?"
"Pray, brother, just pray."
"I hope the Twin Gods help us win the lawsuit against this bastard Huntsman so he pays our compensation."
"Ummm..." The blonde looked around in a panic and quickly blurted out, "Ozpin will pay for everything! Just please, let's not involve the courts."
Because Huntsmen are the absolute elite, they enjoyed privileges ordinary citizens could only dream of. They could get away with a lot of things that would land a regular person a hefty fine or even jail time. Property damage? They didn't even have to worry about it—if they were pursuing a criminal or a Grimm, the state would cover the costs. Certain injuries to civilians could also be forgiven. Huntsmen were virtually untouchable as long as the situation was deemed critical, as they were the only ones standing between humanity and the Grimm beyond the walls.
But obviously, tonight's situation was not critical, and elite or not, Huntsmen who abused their power got thrown into decidedly non-elite prisons.
"Brother, I can feel the bones in my legs knitting back together."
"It is the Gods, brother. They have answered our prayers."
Snickers rippled through the hall, significantly easing the tension for both the blonde Huntsman and three-quarters of Egrer's pack. Only Yort let out a disappointed growl. He had been hoping for an epic brawl against two powerful enemies, and he'd been completely blue-balled.
"Shut those clowns up!" Junior was also displeased, not because of the lack of a fight, but because of the stupid jokes. "Ozpin is going to have to pay a lot if he wants to avoid a conflict. Let's step outside and talk."
The drunken brawler had stopped resisting, having apparently realized his rampage was triggered by a flashback. As they walked out, a collective sigh of relief washed over the club.
"How often do you guys, uh..." Egrer made a vague circling gesture with his hand, pointing everywhere and nowhere at once, "...have this happen? Just asking since I'll be working here soon..."
"Honestly? Huntsmen wreck the place pretty often. But Ozpin always covers for his people, so he and the boss see each other almost every month."
A stunningly unanimous sigh echoed among the gangsters, followed by a colorful array of profanities.
***
Egrer stood alone on the balcony, looking out over the city with a sense of deep satisfaction. This studio apartment had exactly one redeeming quality that made up for many of its flaws... Why mince words? The entire apartment was one giant flaw, but the view! Being on the one hundred and fifteenth floor provided a breathtaking panorama at night, when the city streets lit up.
He slouched against the railing, lazily watching the glowing windows, the tiny dots of people below, the cars driving by, and the Bullheads flying in the distance.
This wasn't even the tallest building in Vale. From here, he had a perfect view of the city center and its massive skyscrapers. The tops of those towers always stayed dry during a rainstorm because no cloud could float that high. They were masterpieces of human engineering; without them, tens of millions of people wouldn't be able to live in the city, and they would have been devoured outside the walls. Mistral didn't have anything like them. Instead, it had endless cliffs and mountains, which people tirelessly dug into every single day just to secure a tiny sliver of living space. Life in those tunnels was no picnic, but it was vastly cheaper than building skyscrapers, so the Mistral Council didn't particularly care.
"You're going soft, old man." Egrer slapped his own cheeks, rubbed them vigorously, and, red as a tomato, went back to watching the city.
But this time, without the melancholy thoughts. Tonight he should be celebrating, not mourning the past. Another checkmark had been placed in his notebook, this time next to "Launch PR Campaign." The next item on the list was "Play an original song to a massive crowd," and that was going to be genuinely difficult. He currently possessed neither an original song nor the faintest idea of how to gather a "massive crowd."
He had high hopes for Junior's club, but Hei's rules explicitly forbade playing originals. Besides, they'd have to wait a bit while the club was being cleaned up. Hei promised it would only take a couple of days—the structural damage wasn't too extensive, and Beacon Academy had instantly wired a compensation payout of one million Lien.
The faint squeak of hinges behind him pulled Egrer out of his slow-moving thoughts. He had almost dozed off, leaning against the fragile railing that was pushing fifty years old. Probably not the safest thing to lean on...
Rubbing his eyes and letting the cold wind hit his face, Egrer finally snapped fully awake.
"You sleeping?" Yort roughly shoved his leader aside, making some room for himself. The balcony was definitely not designed for two people, and it was a tight squeeze. But more importantly—the serene atmosphere was gone.
For a few seconds, Yort stared blankly toward the Vale high-rises, completely ignoring the beauty Egrer had just been admiring. He was either trying to mimic his leader, or he just didn't know how to start the conversation.
He definitely wanted to talk. That much was obvious from the way he nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot, hiding his sweaty palms in the pockets of his lounge shorts. Yort hated talking. He preferred to punch his problems in the face, thoroughly humiliate them, and then walk away with a deep sense of dignity to go punch the next problem. But, as Headmaster Ozpin had said—strength doesn't solve every problem.
"Ill pissed you off again, didn't he?" Egrer asked, trying to help his friend break the ice. Unfortunately, he knew the conversation wouldn't be about their gig schedules or their music career.
"Yeah." Yort still wouldn't look his leader in the eye, his gaze glued to a Bullhead flying far in the distance. Egrer stared in the same direction. "Madge is practically spoon-feeding him, and he's still playing the shell-shocked victim, the lazy moron."
"He'll be good as new tomorrow, just let him sleep it off. He won't even remember it."
Silence fell between them for a moment. The distant wail of a police siren, echoing off the high-rises, reached their ears, as if mocking the soft-heartedness of one and the embarrassment of the other.
"Look, bottom line!" Yort grabbed Egrer by the shoulder and spun him around roughly. Yort looked depressed, but resolute. "I'm not teaming up with weaklings at Beacon. I'm not staying with you guys."
Those words... Egrer had naively hoped he could change Yort's mind over the six months since they met. Even back then, once Yort got a better look at their small pack—which at the time consisted only of Egrer and Illmond—he wanted to find stronger friends. He defiantly disobeyed his leader, constantly fought with Illmond, and always felt like an outsider in their group. After they took Magenta in, things only got worse.
Strength was the only thing that mattered to him; everything else was secondary and meaningless. Weak people couldn't protect what they held dear, just like they couldn't protect a friendship. That was why he always avoided interacting with weaklings. To him, they simply didn't exist. Even Illmond, who could easily beat him in a one-on-one fight, never became an authority figure for him because his personality was weak and he was incredibly cowardly.
When Egrer helped Yort forge his Beacon documents, he didn't ask for anything in return—no money, no favors. And Yort, despite growing up in criminal Vacuo, had had the concepts of honor drilled into his head by his parents before they died. He still felt indebted to Egrer, following his new leader everywhere, even if he refused to acknowledge any authority over him.
Until today.
"Do what you want," Egrer replied calmly, looking back out at the illuminated streets. He didn't want to see Yort's face, but he roughly knew what expression he'd find there: a battle between his own ambition and an unpaid debt.
In almost every situation, Egrer reminded Yort that he didn't owe him a damn thing. Egrer just wanted to be friends, and friendship isn't built on mutual transaction. It's built on trust and spending good time together. Surviving the Mistral slums was brutal, but it was the camaraderie of his friends that helped Egrer get through it.
Yort had learned entirely different lessons from his life.
"Cut the crap. I don't give a shit about your high-and-mighty morals. Just tell me what you want me to do—anything—and we can finally go our separate ways."
"I helped you because I wanted to. I'm not going to force you to stay in my pack or demand anything from you. But if that's what you really want—get stronger, go back to Vacuo, and finish your business there. That's what you wanted, right?"
"Do you think I'm an idiot?! Why is it so hard for you to just collect on the debt? Just take it!"
Egrer couldn't take anything from him; he had no moral right to. Yet Yort desperately wanted to be freed from the debt he had imposed upon himself. It was a no-win scenario, and to resolve it, someone had to betray their own principles. And since Yort had decided to leave, that meant he broke first.
"I know," Egrer's nervous smile couldn't be contained any longer, "we're in limbo right now..."
"We've been in limbo since the day we met, damn it to the Grimm," Yort interrupted roughly. He let go of his leader, no longer looming over him like a stone monolith. "You know what? If you actually considered me a friend, you would have stopped torturing me a long time ago."
"Don't say that! I do consider you a friend!"
"I don't need words." He spoke with an old, deeply buried anger. He genuinely believed he had been used from the very beginning.
"If you want proof," Egrer swallowed the thick saliva in his throat, frantically trying to think of what to say, "if you want proof, you'll get it."
"When?"
"Let me explain. Here's how you're going to pay me back: I command you, as payment for your debt, to stay with us for the remaining month until Beacon begins. During that time, I will prove to you that I'm not using you. At the end of the month, you can decide whether you want to study with us or join a different team." Egrer said this solemnly, pouring all his natural optimism and burning desire to prove his sincerity into his words.
But Yort just tiredly rubbed his eyes—a gesture of weakness you almost never saw from him.
"I've already made up my mind, Eg... Ah, fuck it, I agree. I'll just pretend to myself that I'm fine with this. I don't have the energy for this bullshit anymore."
He shot a tired look into Egrer's smiling eyes, waved his hand dismissively, and stepped back inside the apartment. And in that very moment, Egrer's carefully maintained smile cracked, twisting into something horribly nervous.
"Man... a month is going to be enough to convince him I'm sincere, right?" he asked the few stars bright enough to pierce the city's light pollution.
Naturally, they didn't answer.
Oh well. It wasn't like Egrer was expecting a heart-to-heart with the cosmos anyway. He just stood there on the balcony of the one hundred and fifteenth floor, watching people live their lives, watching cars drive by...