— Part Three —

"So..." Bob said to Gren, "...tell me more about this promise?"

Gren perched on a barstool, his elbows propped on the counter, idly swirling a glass of bluish liquid. The faint light of the dimly lit Jankar saloon danced through the drink, casting brief, shimmering reflections. Nearby, Bob leaned his broad frame against the bar, one elbow resting casually while his other hand cradled a drinking glass of his own. The saloon was quiet, almost desolate—the late-night crowd still hours away. A few weary patrons trickled in after the day's work, their subdued presence blending with the muted ambiance. The sparse, plain décor seemed even more neglected in the stillness, as if waiting for the usual noise and bustle to breathe life back into the space.

The two had only just settled in, enough time to order their drinks and exchange lighthearted remarks about the journey to the establishment and the tasks Bob had been tied up with at Administration. Resting on Gren's blue cloak, draped casually over the edge of the bar, was the small box containing his newly minted Hunter's license—a topic they had already touched upon and moved past. Now, however, the conversation veered toward a weightier subject, much to Gren's mild yet veiled apprehension: what his next move would be.

Gren smiled faintly, his gaze fixed on the bluish liquid in his glass. "I figured you already knew," he said, his tone light and laced with a hint of humor that barely concealed his underlying anxiety. There was no avoiding it now.

"True enough," Bob nodded with a casual shrug. "But I still like to to be told things. Helps clear the air. And yes," he added stoically, "I am aware of your upcoming request."

Of course he was, Gren thought. Bob had an uncanny ability to read him, picking up on the unspoken details with ease. Gren could never fully keep his thoughts hidden from his old mentor no matter how hard he had tried. Bob shifted his stance, his expression turning more focused. "You haven't mentioned her much lately. What's she really like?"

Gren hesitated, his gaze drifting upward as he carefully weighed his response. "She's... headstrong. Maybe too much for her own good," he admitted, his voice tinged with both frustration and admiration. "She's not exactly reliable, but she's been getting on by herself for a while now. She can hold her own... for a kid, at least." He glanced at Bob out of the corner of his eye, gauging his reaction. "She doesn't always show it, but the maturity is there. I think she'll do whatever it takes to grow into... it."

Gren let his words trail off, uncharacteristically guarded. He couldn't bring himself to say what it was outright, the strain of it pressing against his chest like a wordless truth he wasn't quite ready to face.

Bob's propped hand traced the rim of his empty, petite glass with a slow, deliberate motion. "So, you're saying she's going to end up just as crazy as you are?"

"One can only hope," Gren replied, his smile broadening. He shot a quick glance at his former mentor. "Not like I've ever let you down yet, right?"

Bob snorted, his head swaying slightly in mock disbelief. "Well, that's up for debate…"

"Sabuku…" they both said in unison, their words followed by a shared, stifled laugh.

"You're never gonna let me live that one down," Gren said, shaking his head with an embarrassed smirk.

"Can you blame me?" Bob replied, his grin widening as he sheepishly let his gaze fall down to his empty glass.

"Sabuku was a rough day…" Gren quickly admitted with a shrug, his skin crawling beneath his deep crimson body armor at the memory.

He shifted in his seat, angling himself toward Bob with a more personal demeanor. His tone turned serious, the humor fading as his stare sharpened.

"She wants to be a Hunter, Bob," Gren said earnestly. "She has to get out of that place, but…" He trailed off, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "That's the only way she'll come back with me."

Bob raised an eyebrow, his expression carefully neutral and masking any hint of the thoughts churning beneath the surface. He set his glass down on the bar and firmly tapped the hard surface with two fingers loudly.

"So," he began questioning again, his tone deliberate, "what, then, is the alternative to this promise? Does she remain there indefinitely unless you can fulfill it?"

"I don't know, Bob," Gren said, his shoulders slumping under the burden of his thoughts. He hesitated, knowing how her request might come across. "I don't want you to think she's selfish. She's just… attached to that place. But it's not living. She has to get out of there and move on." He paused, his thoughts tangling.

Either selfish or immensely determined—that's how it felt. Still, Gren knew Bob would see beyond the surface. Hunters were, by nature, self-serving; everyone who chose this life had their own agenda. Gren had been no different when Bob trained him. It was a selfish business, and Gren was only now starting to grasp the deeper implications of that—implications that left him both reflective and increasingly vexed.

Bob lifted his eyes from the sharply dressed bartender as she refilled his glass with the bluish liquid. He turned his gaze back to Gren, one brow raised in that knowing way of his. "And by calling it a promise, I can only assume it's one you've already made?"

Gren let out a dry scoff. He dropped his gaze to the bar, letting his pale green bangs fall over his face, hiding the flush of embarrassment creeping across his cheeks.

"Yup…"

Bob studied him for a moment, then cut through Gren's spiraling thoughts with a pointed query. "So, what makes this time so important? It can't just be because you're licensed now..."

Gren tilted his head upward, meeting Bob's steady gaze. For a brief moment, his expression betrayed his vulnerability before it grew vacant, his thoughts scrambling for an answer he hadn't prepared. Slowly, he averted his gaze, unable to mask the anxiety roiling within him. His eyes flicked toward the blue box resting on the counter, then away again as if the sight of it burned. Its presence now seemingly more of a burden than the prize it had been to him earlier in the day.

On the way here, walking from the Administration building, Gren had anticipated a dozen questions Bob might ask—questions about the job, the mission, or his future as a Hunter. He'd rehearsed answers for all of them in his head. But this was the one he couldn't prepare for, not well enough at least. The one he'd buried deep in the recesses of his mind, futilely hoping it wouldn't surface. Yet here it was, staring him down like a challenge he couldn't ignore.

Why now? Gren found himself wondering. He'd always told himself she was managing fine on her own in Batabitajira, so why did the thought of her coming with him feel so urgent all of a sudden?

"That's a tough question to answer," Gren finally admitted, his voice quiet as he toyed with the edges of the fabric napkin beneath his glass. "And I don't think I have a good one…"

"If you want my opinion," Bob said, straightening up slightly, his tone calm but purposeful. Gren didn't need to look at him to know that Bob, with his sharp intuition and years of experience, likely understood the situation far better than Gren did himself. "I think you're letting this 'big brother' role pull you in too deep, like you're trying to shoulder more than anyone ever asked of you."

Bob hesitated again, his gaze steady as he carefully measured his next words. "...or perhaps you're unsure whether you even have the strength to shoulder it at all?"

"Maybe…" Gren admitted softly, his tone lacking resistance, a quiet acknowledgment of the truths Bob had laid bare. Instead, he let the thought linger in the air, his gaze fixed on his glass. "She doesn't have any other family," he said softly. "My parents were the ones who looked after her after hers left town."

His grip on the glass tightened as the grief of old memories began to press down on him. "Her parents left with the rest… everyone did, eventually. I guess they figured a little kid was too much to carry to the city." He paused, his eyes unfocused. "She was too young to remember how desperate everyone was back then."

Bob lifted his glass and took a slow sip, nodding slightly as he listened. Gren barely noticed the gesture, but he knew Bob was paying attention, as he always did, offering his silent support.

"And then… well. You know. It wasn't an easy place to live," Gren continued, his voice wavering slightly. "First, it was Mom." His eyes narrowed as he recalled the memory, the ache of loss fresh even after all this time. He shook his head as if trying to push the thought away. "Dad didn't know how to take care of two kids—not the way she did. Especially not after he got sick too. When he finally…" Gren trailed off, his voice softening as he steadied himself with a hollow, dry gulp. "When he was gone, it was just me and her."

His tone carried a faint, bittersweet resignation, the palliative weight of someone trying to soothe his own wounds even as he spoke them aloud.

"When I left for Myce to find work, she still had people around her," Gren continued, his grip on the glass loosening as the memory seemed to soften his tension. "She was getting older, managing well enough with what I could bring back. But now… they're all gone too. She's still there, clinging to the past, refusing to close that chapter unless there's a new one to start." His brow furrowed, another wave of unspoken emotion breaking through. "She deserves more than that. More than what she has now."

Bob's calm, steady voice cut through the silence. "Are you saying what she deserves most is you?" His tone was low, matching the somber timbre of Gren's words, yet it carried an undeniable clarity. "Or does it sound more like you're the one who needs her?"

The imposing man straightened his posture, his perceptive eyes narrowing as he leaned slightly closer. With deliberate care, he tapped the small blue box sitting between them on the bar.

"As hard as life may be out there," Bob continued, "you know just how unforgiving the life she thinks she wants can be here. Are either of you prepared for that?"

Gren let out a stifled, sardonic laugh. "My hands aren't any cleaner than the next guy's, Bob."

His dark eyes flicked toward the box on the bar, lingering. "The dirtier they get, the more awards and praise come with it." He exhaled sharply, his gaze dense with tacit memories. Gren had done things—ordinary bounties required by his career—that gnawed at him in quiet moments. No Hunter's hands were clean. Those were the stories he avoided sharing with her during his visits. And he knew, if she followed his path, she'd face the same challenges. How could a kid possibly prepare for that? How had he? That thought, like so many others, added yet another bullet to the growing list of doubts he had since making her that promise.

"I don't think I deserve a sister sometimes," Gren admitted, his voice solemn, his eyes filled with intensity. Bob noticed his apprentice's shift in tone, leaning back slightly to give him space. "But when you're the one taking care of someone else, it makes you forget some of the bad things you've done. Replaces them with a sliver of something good."

Gren nodded, as if reinforcing his own words. "Maybe that's why I need that responsibility. Someone who depends on you. Someone who's called you her brother for so long and wants nothing more than to be just like you." He shrugged slightly, his tone softening. "You just… get used to it, you know?"

Bob set his drink down with deliberate care and wiped a stray drop from his mustache. The thin line of hair twitched slightly as his lips curled into a soft, approving smile, his pride understated but unmistakable.

"I think I can understand that," Bob said quietly, his voice warm with veiled admiration as he regarded his young pupil.

Gren kept his gaze fixed ahead, unwavering for the moment, as his fingers slowly twisted the base of his glass on the bar top. "It just seems easier for everyone now," he said, his voice carrying a bit more volume, as if trying to convince himself as he concentrated his thoughts. "I can take on my own jobs, make my own work," he paused briefly, "...and take care of her."

He let out a long, exasperated sigh and sank deeper into his stool. "...I know it's a little early to ask."

"You're right," Bob replied with a husky sigh of his own, the kind Gren had come to recognize as a harbinger of unwelcome truths. "Don't get me wrong, Gren; I think you're more than capable of taking her on as an apprentice Hunter. And I understand why you want to."

Bob's large hand suddenly rested firmly on Gren's shoulder, the armored plate beneath it barely dampening the reassuring pressure. "I believe you're doing this for the right reasons, even if you doubt those reasons yourself." He gave Gren's shoulder a slight squeeze before letting his hand trail away, his calm and supportive demeanor retreating with it. "But asking for such a request so soon after being licensed? That's something we just can't push for. It's against the regs'."

Gren stared into his drink, his thoughts swirling as the conversation unfolded exactly as he had expected. Bob was right, of course. It was against regulations for him to take on an apprentice so soon. But Gren knew he couldn't leave it at that—not when so much was at stake. Gren, resolute, reevaluated his approach. Maybe it was too soon for him, but there had to be someone else—a seasoned Hunter with the experience to guide her. Someone who could train her properly. Someone he could trust.

Or maybe… not a Hunter at all?

A mischievous smile curled across Gren's lips as an idea sparked in his mind. With playful confidence, he raised his hand and gave Bob's rigid, white body armor a hearty slap with the back of his gloved hand.

"Then what about you, buddy?" he asked as he rapped his knuckles against the chest plate, the resonant knock echoing faintly through the stillness of the bar.

The force of Gren's hand didn't faze Bob, but the audacious suggestion certainly did. Bob blinked rapidly, his dark eyes widening in surprise, his usual composed demeanor cracking into rare awkwardness. If he hadn't already set his drink down, Gren was sure he'd be wearing it by now.

"Are you—?" Bob sputtered, his words caught somewhere between disbelief and a laugh. "Seriously?"

Gren shrugged, flashing a big, lopsided, playful smile. "Sure, why not? I turned out alright, didn't I?" he teased, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed the urgency of his request. Still, he pushed forward, refusing to let it stop him. "Besides, Bob, you're such a workaholic," Gren added with a sly smirk. "The idea of not training someone probably repulses you, doesn't it?"

Bob's brow furrowed, his expression hardening. His patience was clearly wearing thin, and Gren knew he was treading on dangerous ground. Bob had never been a fan of being on the receiving end of a joke—especially not one this brazen.

"Actually," Bob snapped, his tone sharp as his scowl deepened, "I think a vacation sounds pretty good after having to wrestle with you for four years…"

Gren's shoulders slumped dramatically as he threw his head back with an exaggerated sigh. "Oh c'mon, Bob!" he exclaimed loudly, reaching out to tug at Bob's opposite shoulder, his urgency finally breaking through his playful exterior. "If she can't have me, then who else do you think I'd trust to look out for her?"

Bob scoffed under his breath, scratching his nose with a finger in a half-hearted attempt to mask his muttered reply. "Taking care of one of you is enough…"

"You said it, Bob," Gren countered, his words intense and focused. "You're the one that said earlier she'd be in good hands. Does it really matter if those hands are mine… or yours?"

Gren leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed intently on Bob. He caught the faintest movement—a twitch at the corner of Bob's lips, so subtle it might have been missed by a less observant eye. Yet, to Gren, it was unmistakable—a barely concealed tremor that betrayed the steady unraveling of Bob's carefully maintained resolve.

He had him now.

"Just think of it as a favor," Gren suggested, tilting his head to the side with that same disarming smile. He caught the immediate roll of Bob's eyes and had to stifle a laugh. Seeing the usually composed Ghomvak officer so visibly irked was becoming an unexpected source of amusement.

"A favor?" Bob shot him a sharp, skeptical glance from the corner of his eye. "And what, exactly, are you planning to give me in return?"

Gren's sly, cunning smile widened. "I don't think that far ahead…"

Bob let out a heavy, exasperated sigh, his shoulders sinking as if gravity in the bar had suddenly doubled. For all his wisdom and composure, trying to counter Gren's relentless, almost childlike persistence with logic only seemed to push him deeper into Gren's trap. And Gren knew it. He could feel the faint thrill of triumph bubbling beneath his resolve.

This wasn't just for her.

This was for him.

"A favor it is, then?" Gren pressed, giving Bob's armored vest a light tug, reinforcing his stance. This time, his smile was less playful, more reassuring. "To an old friend," he added, straightening up and locking eyes with Bob. His confidence now radiated, bridging the gap between them. "...And to his sister."

Bob turned to face Gren fully, his sharp gaze softening just slightly, revealing a flicker of contemplation. Gren could see the doubt in his mentor's eyes—the pressure of risks and responsibilities now mirrored the very same doubts that had gnawed at him for hours now. For Gren's sake, he silently hoped Bob would see it as a risk worth taking.

There was a shift in Bob's expression, subtle but unmistakable—a deeper search for something within Gren, a wordless demand for reassurance. He wasn't just gauging Gren's determination; he was seeking absolute conviction.

A promise.

Gren met his gaze with quiet intensity and gave a single, resolute nod. "Yes. My sister," he said, the words leaving his lips with a rare humility that even he hadn't expected to feel. His smile lingered, no longer a playful mask but a reflection of his sincerity.

Bob looked away, inhaling though his nose deeply, his eyes closing for a brief moment of quiet reflection. His bare hand reached up to his forehead, scratching at the small tattooed dots etched into his dark skin. Gren watched him closely, his nerves tightening with each passing second of silence. The consequence of the moment stretched endlessly, every heartbeat an eternity.

This is it, Gren thought.

"Alright," Bob finally relented, exhaling a long, measured breath that seemed to have been held for ages. His fingers slid across his forehead to gently massage the stress from his temples. "I'll try to register her for apprenticeship under my name."

Bob's eyes opened, locking onto Gren's with unwavering focus. The lingering shadow of doubt that had hovered between them was gone, replaced by the steadfast resolve and quiet strength that Gren had always revered in his mentor. With a solemn nod, Bob conveyed his decision.

"If she sticks with it and shows some promise after a year or two..." Bob added, his voice tinged with reluctant acceptance. "Well, we'll figure something out."

Gren felt his eyes welling up, the overwhelming relief catching him off guard. He inhaled deeply through his nose, his grip tightening on Bob's armored vest as if to anchor himself in the moment.

"But please," Bob said, his tone softening as he met Gren's gratitude head-on. "No more promises."

Overcome, Gren slowly released his hold on Bob's shoulder, his hand sliding away as he sank back into his bar stool. The tension that had gripped him for so long finally began to melt. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to breathe freely. This was just the first small step, but it was a step he could hold on to—a moment that would stay with him forever.

"Thanks, Bob…" Gren said quietly, his voice carrying the importance of his relief. He felt like he had just completed a grueling chase, the release of adrenaline leaving him both exhausted and renewed. For now, at least, he could rest, even as he knew the true challenges still lay ahead.

The protégé and the mentor sat in silence, the solemnity of their conversation lingering in the stillness of the bar. Time seemed to stretch, unmeasured, as both men gathered their thoughts. Bob's anxious grip kneaded the edge of the bar, his focus turned inward, formulating a plan in his methodical way. Gren, meanwhile, observed his mentor with quiet patience, his own mind still processing the decision they had reached.

Suddenly, as if to break the tension he had created for himself, Bob nodded toward Gren's neatly folded cloak resting on the bar between them. His gaze shifted to the small blue box tucked within its folds.

"You do know you're supposed to put that on, right?" Bob asked, his tone peculiar, somewhere between curiosity and rebuke.

Gren's gaze drifted away from his old friend, settling instead on the immensity of the empty barroom. A particular thought crossed his mind, broadening the faint smile already tugging at his lips.

"You know how I like to make promises," Gren replied after a pause.

Bob's eyes closed, his face contorting with an all-too-familiar mix of exasperation and discontent. "I just told you—I don't have room for any more of your promises—"

"No, Bob." Gren cut him off with a gentle shake of his head, his voice softer now, almost reverent. "It's fine. This one's just for me."

Bob's gaze shifted back to Gren, poring over him for a moment as if trying to decipher the meaning behind his words. He took a shallow breath, his posture straightening to its usual stiff, disciplined form. His hand reached for his glass again, though his focus remained distant, as if searching for one final thought.

"Forgive me, old friend," Bob said at last, his voice returning to its monolithic, authoritative tone, one befitting a Ghomvak officer. "I know you've told me before, but in all the excitement today, I seem to have misplaced her name."

Gren nodded toward his most trusted confidant, a flicker of pride in his expression as he folded his forearm on the bar.

"Iria," he said softly, the name carrying a weight of significance he kept buried deep within his armored chest. He swallowed the swell of joy threatening to rise, determined not to let it show. "Her name is Iria."

"Bounty Hunter Iria…" Bob mused, his voice a quiet ripple in the stillness of the bar, the words slipping into the silence as if intended for no one but the empty space around them.

"Yep," Gren replied, his tone tinged with a subtle pride that he didn't bother to hide. A faint smile played on his lips as he leaned back slightly, arms crossing his chest loosely and resting his forearms gently on the edge of the counter.

"...taking all of our jobs," he added with a smirk, the teasing remark brightening his face with a spark of playful energy.

Bob shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping him as the tension between them came to an ease.

"Like brother, like sister…" he remarked, raising his half-full drink toward Gren. The shimmering blue box between them caught the faint light reflected through the cerulean liquid as Bob tilted his glass slightly in its direction. "Just give me a few days to pull some strings."

Gren held his mentor's gaze, his eyes steady with a quiet strength that spoke to his own conviction. His unfolded arm reached for his own glass, lifting it in response. With a flick of the wrist, their glasses met with a soft, harmonious clink that echoed the promise they had forged.

"...Deal," Gren said quietly.