The walk back took twice as long as the run out had. Eric's body was finally catching up to what he'd put it through, muscles stiffening, exhaustion settling in deep.
By the time he reached his apartment, he was ready to collapse again.
Instead, he forced himself to shower, letting hot water work out some of the soreness. Then, despite wanting nothing more than to sleep for twelve hours, he tackled the chores he'd been putting off.
Laundry first. Gathering clothes from various corners of his apartment, sorting, loading the machine. The mundane domesticity of it was oddly soothing after the intensity of the morning.
While laundry ran, Eric tidied the apartment. Dishes from earlier in the week, trash that needed taking out, surfaces that needed wiping down. He usually saved all this for weekends, his schedule during the week too packed with clients and the general chaos of his life.
By early afternoon, his apartment looked almost respectable. Laundry folded and put away, kitchen clean, floors swept. Eric collapsed onto his couch, finally allowing himself to rest.
His phone buzzed. A message from the potential client from this morning, following up on availability.
Eric responded with screening questions, going through his usual process. Background, expectations, boundaries, payment. The professional side of his brain engaging automatically.
Another message, this one from Isabelle, asking when he was free again.
Eric put the phone down, suddenly tired of it all.
'Is this really what I want?' he wondered. 'Years more of this? Scheduling clients, maintaining boundaries, performing on demand?'
The money was good. The work itself wasn't bad. But it felt hollow somehow, especially after this morning with Zara. That had been real, unscripted, genuine.
'I need a plan,' Eric thought, his intelligence stat helping him think clearly despite his exhaustion. 'A way out. Or at least a way forward that isn't just this forever.'
But what? His PhD was in Business Administration. He understood markets, economics, systems. He could theoretically start something, build something.
But what? And with what capital?
'Think about it later,' Eric decided. 'Right now, you need to move.'
He stood, ignoring his protesting muscles, and grabbed his jacket. Evening was approaching, the sun starting its descent. Eric liked walking in the evening sometimes, when his mind was too full and his apartment felt too small.
He headed out, letting his feet carry him without conscious direction.
Stardale revealed itself in layers as Eric walked. His neighborhood first, modest apartments and small houses, working-class families and young professionals like himself. Chain restaurants and convenience stores, the community center where Sarah played volleyball.
He kept walking, crossing into the commercial district. Taller buildings here, offices and banks, restaurants that catered to business lunches. Streets busier even on a Sunday evening, people enjoying their last hours of freedom before the work week started again.
Further still, into the entertainment district. Bars and clubs starting to come alive as sunset approached, neon signs flickering on one by one. Music spilling out of open doors, the sound of people laughing, living, enjoying themselves.
And then, the edge of the red light district.
Eric hadn't meant to walk this far, but here he was. The motel district, where Stardale's sex industry operated openly despite technically being illegal. Everyone knew about it. Everyone pretended not to know about it. Police looked the other way as long as things stayed controlled.
The Paradise Inn rose ahead of him, the most popular establishment in this part of the city. Five stories of neon and promise, with celebrity prostitutes advertised on billboards out front. Beautiful women and handsome men, airbrushed and perfect, offering services for prices that made Eric's rates look modest.
He'd thought about working here once, when he'd first started. Just standing in the lobby, letting clients approach him, pick him out like selecting produce.
But Eric had hated the idea. Hated being on display, being reduced to a menu option. He preferred his method, discreet apps and personal referrals, maintaining some illusion of control over who he saw and when.
'Still prostitution though,' he thought, looking up at the neon signs. 'Just with better marketing.'
Eric turned away from the Paradise Inn, continuing his walk. The streets got darker here, less maintained. This was the back side of the entertainment district, where the glamour faded into reality.
And that's when he heard it.
"Let me go!" A woman's voice, high and frightened.
"Shut up, bitch!" A man's voice, rough and aggressive. "You think you can tease and not deliver?"
Eric's steps slowed. He should keep walking. Should mind his business. This wasn't his problem, and getting involved in other people's drama in this part of town was a recipe for trouble.
But something about the woman's voice, the genuine fear in it, made him stop.
"Please, I said no! I don't do that, I told you—"
"I don't care what you told me. You're here, I'm paying, you're gonna do what I want."
Eric turned down the alley where the voices were coming from, his enhanced strength making him feel slightly more confident than he should have.
The scene revealed itself in harsh detail.
A woman pressed against the alley wall, her shirt torn open, exposing her breasts to the cool evening air. She was probably in her mid-twenties, with long brown hair that fell past her shoulders and golden-brown eyes wide with terror. Bursty and curvaceous even in her distress, she clutched the remains of her shirt with shaking hands.
The man looming over her was a brute. Late twenties, built like someone who spent time in prison gyms, with tattoos covering every visible inch of skin. His hands gripped the woman's arms, pinning her against the wall.
But what made Eric's blood run cold was the jacket.
Black leather, worn and weathered. And on the back, clearly visible even in the dim alley light, an insignia. A fang, gleaming black against darker fabric.
Obsidian Fang.
'Oh fuck,' Eric thought, his stomach dropping. 'Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.'
Obsidian Fang was the most powerful delinquent group in West Stardale. They ran protection rackets, drug distribution, illegal gambling. They were violent, organized, and absolutely not people you wanted to cross.
And Eric had just stumbled into one of their members assaulting a woman.
'Walk away,' the rational part of his brain screamed. 'This is not your problem. This is way above your pay grade. Walk away before he sees you.'
But the woman's eyes found his. Golden-brown and desperate, pleading without words.
And Eric thought about his work. About consent, boundaries, the fundamental rule that no always meant no. About the dozens of clients who'd respected his boundaries, and the handful who hadn't, who'd made him feel powerless and used.
He hated that feeling. Hated seeing it reflected in someone else's eyes.
'I'm going to regret this,' Eric thought.
But his feet were already moving forward.
"Hey," he called out, his voice steadier than he felt. "She said no."
The brute's head whipped around, eyes narrowing as he took in Eric. Copper-orange hair, athletic build, looking ridiculously out of place in this alley.
"This doesn't concern you," the man growled. "Keep walking."
"Can't do that," Eric said, his newly enhanced intelligence already calculating angles, distances, possible outcomes. None of them were good. "Let her go."
The brute laughed, a sound like grinding metal. "You got a death wish, pretty boy?"
'Yes,' Eric's brain supplied. 'Apparently I do.'
"Just let her go," Eric repeated, moving closer despite every instinct screaming at him to run. "Walk away. No one needs to get hurt."
The brute released the woman, who immediately scrambled away, clutching her torn shirt. But instead of running, she pressed against the opposite wall, watching with wide, terrified eyes.
The man turned his full attention to Eric, cracking his knuckles with deliberate menace.
"You know who I am?" he asked, gesturing at his jacket. "You see this symbol?"
"I see it," Eric confirmed.
"Then you know you just made the worst mistake of your life."
Eric's hands clenched into fists, his enhanced strength thrumming through his muscles. He had no idea if he could actually fight this guy. He'd never been in a real fight in his life.
But he'd said his piece. He'd made his choice.
And Eric Reid-Leveson, despite all his flaws and questionable life decisions, refused to back down now.
"Maybe," Eric said quietly. "But at least I won't have to live knowing I let this happen."
The brute smiled, and it was the most terrifying expression Eric had ever seen.
"Your funeral, pretty boy."