--
Scar Gun's face twisted with reluctant despair as he emptied the safe, tossing piles of cash onto the table. The stacks of crumpled bills were joined by the emergency stash in his coat and the pocket money scraped from his underlings.
Adam's sharp eyes scanned the growing mountain of money with satisfaction. By the time Scar Gun was done, Adam had amassed a small fortune of 500,000 Dollar.
"Not a bad haul," Adam muttered, eyebrows raised. The loose change and crumpled bills hinted at how hastily this collection was made. Scar Gun, with sweat pooling at his temples, kept glancing nervously at Adam, hoping for a sliver of mercy.
Adam's expression softened for a moment. "You're lucky today, Scar. Just know this: keep your goons in line and stay clear of the civilians in the slums, or next time, we won't be talking."
Scar Gun's knees wobbled, and he nodded vigorously, the relief palpable as he motioned for his men to back off. They slinked away, glancing over their shoulders at Adam as if he were a shadow waiting to pounce.
Adam watched them go, a faint smile ghosting his lips. He hadn't set out to play the hero, but redistributing some of the slum's stolen wealth wasn't the worst outcome.
As night deepened, Adam took to the narrow, dark alleyways, moving like a whisper. He left 100,000 Dollar for himself—enough for upcoming necessities—and split the rest among the doors of shanties that lined the neighborhood. The worn metal doors creaked under the weight of unexpected charity, their rust groaning as the wind caught them.
When he reached the modest home of the Leonardo's family, Adam hesitated, the battered frame of the door speaking volumes about their hardship. He slipped an extra 10,000 Dollar, wrapped in old newspaper, onto the windowsill, pressing it into place with care.
"This should keep you warm a little longer, My friend," he whispered to the wind.
By the time the first light brushed the horizon, Adam's mission was complete. His body ached with exhaustion, but his heart was unexpectedly light. He returned to his one-room shack and surveyed his sparse belongings. The cracked walls and peeling paint seemed almost sad to him now.
He reached into the closet and changed into a plain, threadbare hoodie, stuffing the cloak he wore the night before out of sight. It wouldn't do to draw attention—not when the Crypta Warfare Department might soon be sniffing around the slums over the death of that Doom-Breaker in the abandoned warehouse.
Adam's fingers brushed against a cold, metal object in the drawer: his identity card. Without it, he'd be a shadow in Crypta—no name, no rights.
Stepping outside, Adam glanced one last time at the slum that had both forged and chained him.
"Rose," he called, his voice steady.
The girl with striking black hair and eyes that smoldered like embers stepped up beside him, silent but fiercely loyal.
"Burn it down," he commanded, the finality in his tone undeniable.
Rose raised her delicate hand, and a blaze as dark as midnight erupted, consuming the shack. The fire roared, sending plumes of dark smoke spiraling into the dawn sky. Adam turned away, pulling his hood over his head as the warmth of the flames lit his back. Each step felt lighter as he walked away from his past.
"Farewell, old life," he murmured, disappearing into the waking city.
---
By the time he reached the center of Crypta, Adam's limbs were heavy, and his eyelids drooped. The bustling, polished streets were a stark contrast to the grime of the slums. The driver's voice jolted him awake.
"Hey, pal, we're here!"
Adam blinked at the towering building before him. The glass façade gleamed with the mid-morning sun, and the words "Global Doom-Breaker Alliance Association – Crypta Branch" shone proudly on the sign above the entrance.
Paying the fare with a small nod, Adam stepped out and adjusted his hoodie. The busy crowd flowed past him, impeccably dressed and moving with purpose. Their conversations buzzed with idle gossip and thinly veiled disdain.
"Look at him—where'd he crawl out from?" someone muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.
"Slum kid, maybe," another added with a snicker. "What's he doing here, applying to scrub floors?"
Adam ignored the pointed stares and whispered jabs. These people, cushioned by privilege, didn't know struggle. Yet they fancied themselves judges of those who did.
He pushed through the revolving doors, stepping into a vast hall filled with movement and the hum of conversations. The Global Doom-Breaker Alliance was a symbol of unity and hope, yet it seemed, at first glance, more a club for the elite. Young men and women, decked out in tailored suits and holding their heads high, stood in clusters. The scent of polished wood and fresh ink filled the air.
A young woman at the reception desk, with eyes that shone like polished jade, offered him a welcoming smile. "Good morning, sir. How may I assist you today?"
Adam returned the smile, though his was smaller, guarded. "I'm here for certification to become a Doom-Breaker."
"Of course," she replied, her voice lilting with professionalism. "Do you already possess your own Alienor?"
Adam's brows furrowed slightly. "What difference does it make?"
"It determines which test you take," she explained, patient but sharp-eyed. "You'll either undergo a talent assessment or a field qualification test. The latter requires a demonstration of combat skill."
Understanding dawned, and Adam nodded. "I'm ready. I have my Alienor."
The receptionist's eyes flicked over him, taking in the threadbare hoodie and scuffed shoes, before she returned to her businesslike expression. Without another word, she handed him a form and pointed to a line of waiting chairs.
"Please fill out this application and present your ID card in Area B for your assessment. Best of luck, sir," she added, a hint of curiosity glimmering in her eyes.
Adam nodded, the form already crumpling in his determined grip. A new chapter had begun, and he wasn't going to let the weight of past shadows slow him down.