The plane dipped low and kissed the runway with a smooth bounce, tires screeching faintly against the asphalt before the engines roared into reverse thrust. A brief jolt ran through the cabin, and then the long roll slowed into silence.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Argon City. The local time is six fifteen a.m., and the temperature outside is four degrees Celsius. Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened until the captain has switched off the seatbelt sign. On behalf of our crew, thank you for flying with us, and we wish you a pleasant stay.”

Four degrees.

So the cabin really was warmer than outside. That explained why people rushed to zip their coats before we even stood up.

Argon City sat at a high altitude, so the cold was expected. Still, I couldn’t help thinking, what could cold possibly do to me?

“We’ve landed, Klaus,” I said, glancing at my right-hand man.

A huge fellow, with a deceptively gentle face.

“I noticed.”

He tugged his thick jacket closed, the fabric making him look even bulkier than he already was.

“Meet Etsune and the others. We’ll talk at twenty-hundred in the hotel. I’ve got something else to take care of.”

“Ah,” he said. “The kid Ansel was interested in, huh?”

“Exactly. That’s why—could you also pick up my luggage for me, please?”

I clapped once and blinked innocently.

His deadpan stare could’ve frozen water. A clear sign he’d had enough of my bullshit.

Which, naturally, was why I kept doing it.

“…Sigh. Affirmative. It’s not like I can refuse, is it?”

“You know me best.”

The seatbelt sign chimed off. Passengers immediately sprang up, clogging the narrow aisle with coats and carry-ons. Klaus stayed seated, arms crossed, waiting for the flood to thin.

“Then I’ll see you later,” I said.

He lifted one hand in a lazy half-wave. No words. He’d grown colder since I first met him.

When my turn came, I joined the shuffle down the aisle, thanked the smiling stewardess out of habit, and finally stepped onto the mobile stairs.

The crisp air hit me instantly.

Not city air—the kind that stung your nose. Sharp. Clean.

The sun hadn’t fully risen, its light spilling orange across the mountains. Snow clouds still loitered overhead, heavy and pale, and the runways bore fresh scars from the airport’s snowplows.

“Fuuuh… haaa.”

Breathing here felt like a luxury.

Hordrigg was a metropolitan jungle. Tall building everywhere, bustling crowds in every corner, efficient and polished, Nothing like Argon. No glass tower could compete with mountain air and almost nonexistent PM2.5.

I lingered at the bottom of the stairs while the others hurried into the terminal shuttle bus. Airports always followed the same rhythm: land, wait, shuffle, line up for passport control, wait again.

Tedious.

But standing in that cold, watching my breath turn white, I didn’t mind the delay.

“Now… where was it again?”

I pulled out my phone and scrolled.

“Herike Village… Herike… bingo.”

South of the airport. Forty-five minutes by taxi. Not far, but not close either.

Well. It wasn’t like I had much of a choice.

The exit lane spilled into a small taxi stand. A handful of people were already queued: two men, three women, two kids, four oversized suitcases stacked beside them.

Vacation types, probably.

Two cabs rolled up. Families piled in. And just like that, it was my turn.

Several minutes later, a white cab pulled over. I slid in quickly, shutting the cold out. The heater was already running, air scented faintly with citrus—grape or lemon, hard to tell.

“Where to?” the driver asked. His voice was gravelly. Either years of cigarettes or just age. In the mirror I caught a glimpse of grey hair, a face folded by wrinkles, and a mustache to match. At his age, hoarse was probably the default.

“Herike Village,” I said, settling into the seat.

“Got it. Traveling light? No packs?”

“No.”

“Alright then. Make yourself comfortable.”

He shifted gears, and we rolled out.

The highway wasn’t crowded—hardly any cars on the road, just a few cyclists and pedestrians scattered along the shoulder. The driver filled the silence with small talk: where I’d flown from, why I came to Sandanis. I answered just enough to keep him satisfied.

Compared to Hordrigg, Argon felt quiet. Almost too quiet. The streets had room to breathe, the sky stretched wide overhead, and the mountains cut sharp against the horizon. Nice, if you came here for scenery.

With roads this empty, we arrived in just over thirty minutes. Herike Village turned out more rural than I expected. Simple houses, more trees than businesses, and a stillness that felt untouched by urgency.

“Twenty-four Lid,” the driver said.

“Cashless?”

“Sure.”

He lifted his phone. I tapped mine against it and keyed in the amount. A notification blinked on his screen.

Transaction complete.

“Enjoy your time in Argon, boy.”

“Yeah. Thanks, old man.”

The cab pulled away, shrinking into the road until it vanished.

I stayed where I was, watching it disappear.

Now… where do I start?

I slipped a hand into my hoodie and pulled out the rosy-red envelope.

Exactly the kind Roxley used for recommendation letters. A golden ticket, plain and simple. People bled for less.

By regulation, each one carried three signatures: the Headmaster, the reviewer, and the issuer. That last one mattered most. Someone with no personal ties to the student, yet enough authority to convince the Headmaster the candidate was worth it. Teachers. Professors. Doctors. High-profile sponsors.

That’s what the rules say, but the reality is a little inflated, if you ask me. Every year, at least ten of these letters get issued. If they were truly sacred, the number would be far lower.

“To Theodore Morgan A.”

Morgan A.? Why would Roxley use initials in a formal document?

I flicked open my phone and swiped to the gallery. The kid’s face stared back at me. Black wavy hair, pale skin, and a glare sharp enough to cut glass. Striking blue eyes with slit pupils, almost like a feline.

Syndrome? Or a side effect of his Gift?

“House number 15, block C, Herike Village.”

Blocks usually started from the gate.

Conveniently, the gate stood right in front of me.

Shouldn’t be far, won't it?

“Ah, that’s the bastard!!”

I stopped short. The shout tore through the quiet morning air, sharp enough to make me flinch. My eyes snapped toward the sound before I could stop myself.

Across the street, near a shuttered bar, four thugs had cornered a scrawny black-haired kid in a school uniform. Middle schooler, by the look of him.

I sighed through my nose.

“Seriously… at this hour?”

So much for rural peace. Sandanis wasn’t as quiet as it pretended to be.

Should I intervene? I’d handled scenes like this more times than I cared to count. But this wasn’t Roxley. Not my jurisdiction. Calling local police would’ve been the clean option.

The blond punk—the biggest of the group—stepped forward.

My brows knit.

His fist drew back.

…He’s really going to swing?

I clicked my tongue softly.

“Tch.”

The sun had barely risen and they were already itching for trouble. Annoying. I reached for the whistle resting against my chest. Drop his heart rate a notch, scare the rest, walk away. Simple.

Then the kid moved.

I inhaled sharply.

He caught the punch. Cleanly.

For half a second, my brain stalled.

A shimmer erupted across his arm. Ribbons of rainbow light spilling down to his palm, vivid enough to reflect in my eyes. I froze, breath caught somewhere between surprise and disbelief.

Then the blond screamed.

Blood sprayed as veins burst along his arm.

“…What?”

That’s his Gift, no doubt about it. But my eyes narrowed, instincts racing.

No emission. No buildup. No external medium.

What kind of control factor—

Before I could finish the thought, the boy moved again.

My eyes widened just a fraction.

A kick snapped upward, precise and merciless, crashing into the blond’s face. The impact echoed. The body dropped limp before it hit the ground.

I let out a slow breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Damn.

As the kid turned, I straightened without thinking, focus sharpening. His face came fully into view.

Glowing eyes, embers in shadow. Hair longer than in the photo, but certainly. 

I sucked in a quiet breath.

Theodore Morgan.

So that’s you.

No wonder Roxley marked him.

A robotics prodigy who could dismantle street punks with surgical efficiency?

My lips curved before I noticed.

“…Interesting.”

I slipped the envelope back into my hoodie, fingers tightening around it for a moment.

I was glad they sent me.

This kid belonged on my list.