He can't be serious... A bodyguard mission? Erin muttered, the disbelief clear in his voice.
He thought back to the tension that had hung over the room moments before, thick as fog. Larry could have just said it from the start and spared everyone the suspense. Instead, he let it build, making them sweat before dropping the bomb.
The others, though, were visibly relieved. A bodyguard mission wasn't a big deal—it was just escorting someone from point A to point B. Simple. But Erin wasn't so sure. Something felt off.
If it were really that simple,he thought, why summon so many of us? And why would the Silver Beasts— the most notorious gang in the area—lower themselves to this kind of work? It didn't add up. But the others seemed content to brush off any doubts, the earlier tension dissolving as chatter filled the room again.
Larry resumed speaking, outlining the details of the job. They were to escort a wealthy man to his estate and guard him until he left the area. Standard procedure, really. But Erin's suspicions only deepened. If this guy was so rich, why not hire proper bodyguards or even the police? Why rely on street thugs?
At least they were being paid well. The cash was already in their hands, and more was promised upon completion. The sight of money in his hand made Erin's heart race. He didn't need to be told twice—he grabbed his share and bolted, not bothering to stick around any longer than necessary. Hanging around meant risk. Someone might notice how quickly he was pocketing the cash and decide they wanted a piece of it. The last thing Erin wanted was to end up broke and starving again.
He rushed back to his dingy living quarters, his eyes darting nervously as he approached. Gordon was a constant threat, always lurking nearby, ready to pounce. Erin had taken more than his share of beatings, and he knew Gordon would only be too happy to add another to the list. The guy was at the bottom of the gang's pecking order, and the only way he knew to cope was by kicking someone even lower—unfortunately, that someone was Erin.
But Erin couldn't really blame him. In this world, the strong preyed on the weak. That was just how things were. The only person he could blame was himself for not being strong enough to fight back.
He crept into his house, careful to avoid making any noise. Gordon lived nearby, and Erin knew it wouldn't take much to bring him storming in, fists ready. The familiar sight of his meager rations greeted him—a plate with half of a cold, hard meal left over. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. Still, he wolfed it down. Hunger didn't leave room for picky eating.
Once he was done, he threw a few belongings into a tattered bag. It didn't take long—he didn't have much to pack. With the cash in his pocket, he was determined to enjoy himself for once. No one was going to take his money away this time. He was going to spend it all, every last cent.
As he walked through the streets, bag slung over his shoulder, he knew how he looked—like a beggar. People avoided him, some casting disgusted glances his way. But he couldn't blame them. Who wouldn't look down on someone in his position?
He came across an abandoned building, its roof half-finished, tiles broken and scattered. The project had clearly run out of funds long ago. Erin climbed up and found a spot to stash his bag, hiding it beneath some loose tiles. He didn't want some other vagrant finding it and making off with his things. He knew the streets well enough to understand—if it were him, he'd do the same.
The world was harsh, a place where the strong ruled and the weak fought over the scraps left behind. That's how it had been ever since humanity revolted against the gods.
Leaving the building, Erin set off to do something he'd only dreamed of—eating real meat. It had been years since he'd tasted anything decent, not since his time at the orphanage. The gang's version of meat was barely edible, cold and tough, more like chewing leather than food.
He found a restaurant that looked fancy, at least by his standards. The moment he stepped inside, the room fell silent. Patrons dressed in fine clothes turned to stare at him, their expressions a mix of shock and disdain.
"Sorry, sir, but you seem to be in the wrong place. Can I help you?" an employee asked, trying to keep the disdain from his voice.
"No need," Erin replied coolly. "This is where I want to eat. So, if you could show me to a table..."
Murmurs rippled through the restaurant. People couldn't believe what they were hearing. Some even whispered that he must have stolen the money.
"Uh, right this way, sir," the employee said, leading him to a table in the farthest, least crowded corner. Erin didn't care. All that mattered was the food.
The employee handed him a menu, expecting him to balk at the prices. But Erin didn't flinch. Instead, he began ordering. A lot. The waiter's eyes widened in disbelief as dish after dish was brought to the table. Erin didn't waste any time—he dug in with a fervor that stunned everyone around him.
The meat was tender, juicy, a far cry from the garbage he was used to. Each bite was a revelation, the flavors exploding in his mouth. He ate like a man possessed, barely stopping to drink.
As he ate, he heard the whispers from the other patrons and even the employees.
"Look at him, dressed in rags. He probably stole the money to eat here."
"He'll probably commit suicide once he's done spending everything he has."
Erin didn't care. Their opinions were worthless to him. This was his life, and he would live it how he wanted.
When he was done, he paid the bill—much to the shock of the receptionist—and left the restaurant. He wandered through the city for a while, buying a drink at a convenience store and finding a park bench to sit on. As he sipped the drink, he savored its coldness, thinking, This is what's supposed to be cold, not meat.
Erin knew what he was going to do after this job. He was going to take the money and run, leave the gang behind, escape the city. Maybe he'd find something better. But if only he had known—this decision would be the biggest mistake of his life.
Meanwhile, back at the Silver Beasts' hideout, a meeting was taking place.
"We've received new orders from the boss," one of the men said. "He wants them all sacrificed."
Larry nodded, taking the phone handed to him. "Yes, boss. I understand."
The voice on the other end was cold. "Sacrifice them all. If not, that thing will unleash its wrath on us. And I'm sure you don't want to be on the receiving end of that, do you?"
"Understood," Larry replied, his face hardening.
He hung up and turned to the others, the weight of the order settling on his shoulders. This was no ordinary mission—it was a death sentence.