Kin didn't remember walking home.
But here he was. Standing in the middle of his shabby apartment, still wearing the same shirt with the general's blood dried into a dark brown smear on the collar. The walls were cracked. The ceiling had a water stain shaped like a dead bird. His bed was a mattress on the floor with one pillow and no sheets.
Home, he thought bitterly. What a joke.
He stripped off the shirt, tossed it in a corner, and was about to collapse onto the mattress when—
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Three sharp raps. The kind that meant I'm not leaving.
Kin froze. His arrogant mask slipped back on automatically—I can handle this—but his stomach dropped. He knew that knock.
He opened the door.
She stood there with her arms crossed, one hip popped out, her dark eyes scanning him from head to toe like he was a bug she hadn't decided to squash yet.
Lina. His landlady. Mid-twenties. Beautiful in that infuriating way that made men stupid. High cheekbones. Full lips pressed into a thin line. Hair pulled back in a tight bun that screamed I don't have time for your nonsense.
And her tongue? Sharper than his katana.
"You stink," she said. Not a greeting. An accusation.
"Good evening to you too," Kin said, leaning against the doorframe with practiced ease. Inside, his heart was already racing. What does she want? Oh right. The rent. Shit.
"Don't 'good evening' me." She stepped closer. He could smell her perfume—something clean, like soap and anger. "You're two months late, Kin. Two. Months."
"I know, I know—"
"Do you?" She tilted her head. "Because you're standing there smelling like a distillery, and I'm starting to think you've been drinking your rent money."
Kin's arrogance flared. "I had a rough night."
"So you spent rent money on alcohol?" Her voice went cold. "That's pathetic. You know that's pathetic, right? Don't drink if you know you need money for rent. Basic math."
She's not wrong, a small voice whispered. Kin crushed it.
"Look, Lina—"
"Don't 'look, Lina' me. Pay up. Seventeen hundred per month. That's three thousand four hundred spirit nether. Tonight."
Kin tried to smile. "I'll go get some money. Just give me—"
He pushed the door. Tried to close it.
She pushed it right back open and walked inside.
"You're not getting rid of me that easily."
Kin watched in disbelief as she marched past him, into his depressing apartment, and stopped in front of his mattress. She turned. Arms still crossed. Foot tapping.
God, she's terrifying, he thought. And beautiful. And terrifying.
He sighed, walked to the bed, and pulled out the wooden box from underneath. The one his mother gave him. The one that held everything he owned.
He opened it.
A few crumpled notes. Some coins. He didn't even need to count.
Less than two hundred, he remembered.
He looked up at Lina. Tried to keep his voice steady. "Look. I've got about two hundred here. Take it. I'll give you the rest—thirty-two hundred—tomorrow morning. First thing."
Lina's eyes narrowed.
Then her face changed.
"You know what, Kin?" Her voice was low now. Dangerous. "I let you slide for two months because you seemed... nice. Orderly. You paid on time before. You didn't cause trouble. You even helped old Mrs. Helvig with her groceries that one time."
Kin blinked. She noticed that?
"But lately?" She shook her head. "You've been drinking. A lot. And it's pissed me off. You know how many tenants I've thrown out because they turned into drunks? You're on thin ice, Kin. Really thin."
She could have chased me away, Kin realized. But she didn't.
Something in his chest tightened. Guilt? Shame? He didn't have time for either.
"Give me my two hundred," she said, holding out her hand. "And you have until noon tomorrow for the rest. Not a minute later."
Kin handed her the crumpled notes. Then he said, "I'll transfer the rest. Right now. Over the phone."
She raised an eyebrow. "You? Transfer? You can barely afford instant noodles."
Ouch.
He pulled out his phone. Opened his banking app. The last time he checked—yesterday—he had seven hundred SN. Just enough for food and maybe a cheap bottle.
He stared at the screen.
Balance: 50,700 SN
His thumb froze.
What the—
Then he remembered. The blue screen. The general's head. The voice.
[Task 1 Complete]
[Reward: $50,000]
But the system had paid him in Spirit Nether. Fifty thousand seven hundred.
Oh.
Kin's arrogant smile returned. Genuine this time.
He looked up at Lina. "How much did you say? Thirty-four hundred?"
"Don't play dumb."
He tapped his phone. Transferred 3,400 SN to her account. Then he added another 3,500 SN on top.
Her phone buzzed.
She pulled it out. Looked at the screen. Her eyes went wide.
"Kin... what is this?"
"Rent. Plus a gift."
"A gift?" She looked up at him, suspicious. "This is almost seven thousand. Where did you—"
"I told you. I had a rough night. But I also had a good night." He shrugged, leaning against the wall with fake nonchalance. Inside, his heart was still pounding. Don't ask questions. Just take the money.
Lina stared at him for a long moment. Then she said, "I'm keeping this as rent in advance. For the next two months. So you don't blow it all on—"
"No." Kin's voice was sharper than he intended. "It's a gift. Take it. The rent when the month comes? I'll pay that separately."
She blinked. "That's stupid."
"Probably."
"You're arrogant."
"Definitely."
She looked at her phone again. Then at him. Then back at the phone.
Finally, she sighed. "Fine. But if you come begging next month because you spent everything on whiskey, I'm throwing you out myself."
"Deal."
She turned and walked to the door. Paused. Looked over her shoulder.
"For what it's worth... you look like hell. Get some sleep."
Then she was gone.
Kin stood there for a full minute. Then he laughed. Loud. Bitter. Arrogant.
"A gift," he muttered to himself. "I just gave my landlady a gift. With blood money."
He looked at his hands. They weren't shaking anymore.
But they would be. Soon enough.
[Side Objective: Maintain Residence — Complete]
[Reward: Safe Haven Status — Resting now restores 5% mental stability per hour]
[Next mission in: 71 hours, 14 minutes]
Kin flopped onto his mattress.
Seventy-one hours, he thought. I can drink for seventy-one hours.
He didn't. But he wanted to.