Chapter 38

“The rerun... it’s definitely on at ten tonight.”

Erabelle collapsed onto her perfectly optimized pillow.

Her time with Dezeb came around once every three months or so, give or take a week. By now, the two of them had maintained a stable, trouble-free arrangement for a year and a half. If she counted the period when they were stationed together at division headquarters, it had been nearly two full years.

He seemed to view their ongoing relationship as a source of mild entertainment—like a recurring drama or a favorite movie. Erabelle could only guess it was because his other high-level Compatible partners often failed to control their dominance impulses and ended up infuriating him. To him, she was a comfortable distraction. A living toy.

“Oh, it’s on!”

Sighing at the grim reality of her existence, Erabelle popped open a can of newly rebranded Pistis beer.

“Damn, the new brew is actually good.”

Drinking her favorite beer straight from the bottle, sprawled across the floor of a man who treated human beings like playthings, one leg tossed casually over the couch, salty snacks within arm’s reach, and her ultimate obsession playing on a massive screen...

“Ahh, absolute bliss.”

God, she was so depressed.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you so much too!”

“I love you.”

“I love you more!”

Erabelle had taken to talking back to the television. Selectively, of course. It was a dramatic breakup scene, but she only bothered listening to the dialogue she wanted to hear.

“Don’t cry, baby... I’ll buy you three Blu-rays!”

She sniffled dramatically, burrowing deeper into her nest of blankets.

“How... how could you do this to me...”

How could he, honestly? Who breaks up with someone that handsome? The writer had clearly lost their mind. That face? That sheer cuteness? Even if he’s unemployed, you feed him and keep a roof over his head!

She had missed the original broadcast yesterday and assumed she’d have to wait endlessly for the home release. Yet here she was, catching the rerun. Miracles truly did exist.

Life was worth living after all. Though that didn't mean she was skipping the Blu-rays.

A viewing copy, a archival copy, and an emergency backup. Three was the absolute bare minimum. If she could afford it, she’d buy thirty. Unfortunately, bunker maintenance didn’t come cheap, and she had a mountain of expenses lined up for tomorrow. It pained her deeply that all she could offer her favorite character was three lousy Blu-rays.

Sniffling again, Erabelle tossed her empty snack wrappers straight into Miro’s open mouth.

“Miro~”

The pale whale peeking out from beneath the living room floor obediently swallowed the trash whole.

It was the sort of behavior that would get her sued by an environmental advocacy group on Earth, but this wasn't Earth, that wasn't a real whale, and this was evidence disposal. Perfect, absolute evidence disposal.

After her recent ordeal with Dezeb, managing a minor spirit was a walk in the park. Chucking trash into Miro’s gullet, Erabelle giggled with sheer delight.

She operated on a strict protocol. Eat, and leave no trace. Never entertain the thought of cleaning up later—destroy the evidence immediately. That way, she could never be caught. Ever.

The second she heard Dezeb’s footsteps approaching the door, she would immediately switch the TV to Channel 33.

Channel 33 was an educational broadcast covering the mysteries of the cosmos, multiverse parallel theory, and the academic works of Count Valba Aracan, who had been producing the show for the past three centuries. It was so agonizingly boring that no one outside of forced undergraduate students had willingly tuned in for three hundred years. If someone claimed they watched it for fun, it was a massive red flag. Absolute degenerate behavior.

The moment you turned it on, you’d be knocked unconscious in under five minutes. It functioned better as a medical sleep aid than an educational program. In other words, it was perfect. Foolproof. She would never be caught. Ever.

Of course, she took pride in her hobbies, but she also understood that Muggles didn't view the world through the same lens. People had a habit of looking down on the passions of others. To make matters worse, this wasn't her home; it was someone else's territory. A little discretion was simply basic manners.

“Now this is happiness!”

Life was short. Erabelle cackled merrily as she watched her beloved character on Dezeb’s massive display, without a single care in the world.

Dezeb stared silently at the glowing screen of his pad before pulling a sedative-laced cigarette from his case and placing it between his lips.

“I missed you so much too.”

So James isn’t watching it anymore? Oh... just not when I’m around? Right, I suppose that makes sense.

He gritted his teeth around the filter, irritation flaring in his chest.

“I love you more!”

“Don’t cry, baby... I’ll buy you three Blu-rays!!”

Erabelle was gushing again. Watching her converse with the television as if it were a two-way video call left Dezeb completely speechless. He crushed out the spent stub in silence and lit another.

Outside, the black sedan veered toward the quiet outskirts of the city.

“......”

Still scowling at the screen, Dezeb remembered the woman who, just this morning, had casually plunged an injection straight into her own spine—a routine she carried out as if it were nothing. She isn’t going to live long anyway.

She treated her body as if it were disposable. At the slightest hint of discomfort, her hand was already reaching for narcotics. The belief that a swift, decisive end was preferable to dragging things out governed every single aspect of her existence.

Dezeb tossed the pad onto the seat and stepped out into the cool air as the vehicle came to a stop.

He stood before a secluded, high-end restaurant. Behind him, several identical black vehicles pulled up in neat succession. Crushing his cigarette under his boot, he walked inside.

“It should be reserved under Ken Mos.”

Dezeb addressed the receptionist in a smooth, polite tone. The employee, initially paralyzed by the sight of several matching Transform models—looming, heavy-set men in black suits who had effectively overtaken the lobby—relaxed slightly at Dezeb’s polished demeanor.

“Right this way, sir.”

The dining room was empty, save for a single occupied table in the back.

“It’s been a while, Guildmaster. Please, sit.”

The representative from the Calor Guild, already seated at the reserved table, looked visibly tense.

“Yes, indeed... It has been a while.”

Taking a forced breath, the man pulled out his chair and sat opposite Dezeb. He hadn't expected to meet the Dog Master himself on such short notice. He had assumed he would be negotiating with some low-level regional manager. How had things escalated to this over such a trivial matter?

“I hear you wish to increase your trade volume.”

The Hellhounds—otherwise known as the Dogs.

Their syndicate operated across contract killings, illicitly modified weaponry, unlicensed pharmaceuticals, black-market power packs, and, when the price was right, full-scale military interventions. If there was profit to be extracted, they were involved. Yet beyond their terrifyingly flawless execution rate and an extensive catalog of contraband, remarkably little was known about their internal hierarchy.

The Calor Guild had been conducting business with them through the Nover Federation. They were reliable partners—so long as payments arrived strictly on time. But for a minor Guildmaster like him, sitting across from their head was nightmare material. The body count attached to this organization could populate an entire major colony. These were not people one ever wished to meet face-to-face.

“Expanding your inventory could prove lucrative,” Dezeb noted casually. “Are you interested in sidearms? We just concluded field tests on the new Lord Series 4. If the price is right, we can grant you priority access... Ah, thank you.”

A waitress set down a platter, her cheeks noticeably flushed as she retreated with quick steps. Her lipstick looked freshly reapplied, and the top buttons of her blouse had been left undone just enough to offer a clear view of her chest. The Guildmaster swallowed hard.

To elicit a reaction like that despite wearing a recognition disrupter, the man had to possess at least a Level 6 physical rank. Unlike standard Transforms that physically altered an individual's appearance, recognition disrupters maintained a subject's natural presence while scrambling defining features—albeit imperfectly, as evidenced by the swooning waitress.

“Sir~, the main course might take a bit longer. We hope that’s all right?” the woman cooed, lingering playfully over the final word.

“Take all the time you need,” the Dog Master replied, entirely indifferent.

Perhaps attempting to compensate for the kitchen's delay, the waitress returned moments later bearing a glass of the establishment's finest reserve wine.

Knowing who—and what—this man truly was, the Guildmaster broke into a cold sweat watching the woman’s blatant attempts at flirtation. If he hadn't known the Dog Master’s identity in advance and deliberately fortified his own mental defenses beforehand, he might have succumbed to that ambient presence himself. The sheer thought sent a chill down his spine.

“If you’d like, we can supply the Lord Series 4 ahead of schedule. The Federation should be more than capable of absorbing the extra inventory. It outperformed existing sidearms across every lethality metric.”

“Well, ah... our operation primarily focuses on pharmaceuticals, so...”

“The Federation has already expressed interest,” Dezeb continued smoothly. “We could manage the distribution ourselves, naturally. But given our long-standing partnership, we thought it proper to extend the opportunity to you first.”

He was offering a direct cut of the profits.

“N-no, that won't be necessary! You don't need to trouble yourselves on our account.”

“Then we shall increase your pharmaceutical quota and handle the arms distribution internally.”

“Yes, of course. Absolutely.”

“And should you change your mind, let us know. We would be happy to gift you a few units. The world grows more perilous by the day, and the Federation border is already brushing against RS territory.”

At the Dog Master’s courteous offer, the Guildmaster pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed the cold sweat from his brow.