—Chapter Three —

Ritenuto

(rēdəˈno͞odō ): an immediate reduction of speed.

ˌ

"What do you mean you won't pay me?!" Iria's voice boomed across the pristine lobby of the Tedan Tippedai headquarters, her frustration manifesting in a sharp slam of her gloved fist against the glossy receptionist desk. The impact sent a tremor through the counter, drawing startled glances from nearby staff and visitors. "I did exactly what the contract asked! The job's done! So what's the deal?"

Behind the desk, the receptionist flinched slightly at her outburst but quickly regained his composure. A thin, wiry man with slicked-back hair and oversized spectacles, he looked every bit the part of a corporate desk jockey, Iria had recalled moments before as she first arrived. He adjusted his glasses nervously, pushing them higher up the bridge of his nose, though his tone remained frustratingly calm.

"Like I explained before, miss," he began, his voice carrying a clipped, rehearsed professionalism, "you must understand that the contract was open to all available Hunters. As per our regulations, the bounty is awarded to the first party to submit verifiable proof of task completion. In this case, another individual has already claimed the reward."

"That's impossible!" Iria snapped, leaning further over the sleek counter, her fiery temper flaring as her words echoed across the polished marble lobby. Heads turned, conversations faltered, and curious gazes locked onto the escalating scene at the reception desk. "I was the only one to sign up for this job this morning!" She jabbed an accusatory finger at the holo-screen on the desk. "No one had signed up for it by the time I got to the site! My support team had zero records of anyone else taking the contract, even up until the moment we sprung those lures! Do you know how long I was out there, dying in that desert, setting those things up?"

She spread her arms wide, the motion drawing attention to her sand-gritted, white armor, streaked with blue stains from the lure residue. "Hell, just smell me!" she added with exasperation.

"I—" the receptionist raised a peculiar eyebrow, clearly unsure whether to take her literally. "….don't think that will be necessary, ma'am," he replied, glancing down nervously at his tablet as though hoping for guidance.

"My point is—" Iria slammed her palms against the counter top of the desk to emphasize her words. "You can't just hand my money over to someone else without proof!"

The receptionist flinched slightly but tried to maintain a veneer of professionalism. "Actually," he began, his tone softening to something almost apologetic, though still tinged with a maddening calmness, "it's not as simple as another Hunter filing for the contract. There's… more to it."

Iria's gaze narrowed, her frustration momentarily giving way to suspicion. "What do you mean, 'more to it'?" she demanded.

"We received reports from locals in the area," the man explained, nervously adjusting his glasses as he spoke. "They claimed another individual was present during the mission. Upon investigating, we found confirmation through our site's security cameras. Our mining operations maintain a comprehensive surveillance network."

Setting his datapad down on the desk between them, he turned to the console beside him. His fingers moved deftly across the keyboard, and within moments, grainy footage flickered onto the screen. The video revealed a dusty colony square, its edges blurred by the harsh glare of the Mycian sun. The static-laden images carried a weight of intrigue, hinting at the unfolding events.

Iria's breath caught in her throat as the screen flickered to life. She watched as the small Kreper skidded to a halt in the dunes, pursued by tumbling Zeiramoids, and the mysterious individual that sprang into action. The shadowy figure of a the swordsman, his face obscured by his dark helmet, and a flowing black coat that billowed behind him as he moved with a robotic precision. Her fingers clenched as the video played back, showing the enigmatic man dispatching the creatures with brutal efficiency.

"You've got to be kidding me…?" Iria's voice was sharp, her frustration barely contained as her eye twitched at the sight of the dark figure on the screen, plucking her rifle from the dune. She leaned in closer, her glare fixed on the monitor as the footage continued to play, replaying the standoff between her and the man, with the faltering creatures scattered in the background. The scene played out like a taunt, each frame igniting her anger further.

"Well, where's the rest of this so-called network of yours, huh? What about me doing all the leg work before this?" she demanded, her tone rising with indignation. "You're just showing the part where that guy swooped in and made it look like he did everything!"

She turned the monitor slightly to get a better view. "Go back a little bit and you'll see!" Iria moved toward the keyboard, reaching for it with every intention of pulling up the missing angles herself, but the receptionist quickly blocked her with his arms, his expression one of mild panic.

"Ma'am, please...!" he pleaded with her as he turn the console back to its original position.

"But this is bullshit!" she shouted, slamming her palm on the counter again. The sharp crack echoed across the floor, drawing even more attention from onlookers. "If that guy has claimed the reward, then when did he even get here?"

"Miss, please. You aren't—" the man bowed his head in pleading with her.

"And I saw that guy's license," Iria pointed at the screen with a frustrated ire as the recording showed her chasing the man in the helmet down as he retreated. "It was a weird color, but he was most definitely a Hunter. By the Code, he would have to provide credentials of the bounty to claim a bounty! But you're telling me that he's an exception?"

The receptionist waved his hands again, trying to defuse the situation. "Ma'am, you're misunderstanding. The individual in the footage did not file for the bounty." The man pauses as Iria shot him another confused glower. "It's quite the opposite of what you're thinking, miss, we have no way to prove that that individual is a Hunter or not because he is not the one that claimed the contract!"

Iria stared at the man, her thoughts swirling in wordless contemplation. Her gaze flicked back to the console, where the footage continued to play. The two Hunters wordlessly arguing with each other—her grabbing him by the arm and stopping him as he tried to pull away.

The memory of the dark figure's metallic voice replayed in her mind, haunting and persistent, like an echo she couldn't shake. Go collect your Kem…

Her jaw tightened as suspicion crept into her expression. Turning her head slightly, she cast the clerk a sharp, side-eyed glare. "He didn't collect?" she asked, her tone edged with doubt, each word slow and deliberate.

"That's correct," the receptionist said with a nervous gulp, nodding slightly. "We have no idea who that person is. Honestly, we were hoping you could tell us…?" his voice trailed off.

Iria straightened, her eyes narrowing as she took one last glance at the screen, where the grainy footage showed her sprawled out in the sand, her rifle lying several meters away. The scene played on an infuriating loop in her mind, feeding her simmering anger. "Then tell me who did claim the bounty," she demanded, her tone sharp.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the clerk stammered, adjusting his glasses nervously, "but I'm not at liberty to discuss—"

Iria's patience snapped like a taut wire. With a frustrated growl, she reared back and slammed the toe of her armored boot against the desk, the impact echoing through the quiet lobby like a gunshot. Heads turned, and the receptionist flinched visibly, his composure faltering as panic flickered in his eyes.

"Damn it! Now listen here…" she hollered, leaning over the counter as her gloved hand shot forward and grabbed the man by his collar. She yanked him closer, her narrowed eyes boring into his, her sneer a clear warning. The man let out a high-pitched whimper, frozen under her glare.

"Miss! Please!" he yelped, his voice trembling as he struggled to keep his composure. "The bounty has already been transferred! If you have a grievance, you're welcome to file a formal complaint with our arbitration office."

Iria's jaw dropped, her disbelief etched plainly across her features. "A complaint?!" she repeated, her voice dripping with scorn. "Oh, come on. Can the script already!" She pulled him closer to her across the desk. "You seriously expect me to sit down, write out a damn complaint, and wait while someone else walks away with my money?"

"Please, lower your voice!" the receptionist pleaded, his hands raised defensively. His calm facade was cracking under the intensity of her fury. "We're simply following protocol—"

"To hell with your protocol!" Iria snapped, her voice slicing through the air like a whip. The memory of her effort, every grueling moment spent risking her life, resurfaced like a taunt. The long hours under the blistering sun, setting lures, taking down the Zeiramoids—every detail mocked her as she stood before the Corporation's cold detachment once again.

"Please, Miss, calm down!" the receptionist pleaded, his voice cracking under the weight of the tension. "There's nothing more we can do! Our budget is stretched thin enough as it is trying to deal with all these Zeiramoids. We just don't have the money!"

Iria's grip on his collar tightened, and the man let out a high-pitched, geeky whimper as he found himself nose-to-nose with the Hunter's narrowed eyes and menacing sneer. "Then you'd better tell me who jumped my bounty," she growled, her voice dangerously low, "or you and your bosses can start passing the hat to scrape together what they can."

The man squirmed in her grasp, his hands fumbling helplessly toward the computer as he tried to defuse the situation. "If you… if you just keep your hands and feet to yourself, I can try to pull up more information for you!" he stammered, his tone half-pleading, half-panicked.

Iria's gaze darted briefly around the room, catching the growing crowd of onlookers. Their stares ranged from curiosity to outright discomfort, and she could feel the weight of their judgment pressing down on her. Her instincts screamed at her to push harder, to demand answers, but a cold, practical voice in the back of her mind reminded her that she was treading on dangerous ground. Tedan Tippedai wasn't just another corporation—it was a monolith, a force that crushed anyone who dared challenge its authority.

With a frustrated growl, she released the man, letting him fall back into his chair with a thud. The receptionist cleared his throat nervously, as he settled back into his seat. His eyes darted toward the nearest security guard, who had begun to edge closer to the desk at the commotion his baton at the ready. He exhaled audibly, adjusting his disheveled collar with trembling hands as he tried to compose himself—with a raised hand he motioned for the guard to stand down.

The guard hesitated for a moment before retreating back to his post, though his wary gaze remained fixed on Iria.

"I'm afraid that most of the information is confidential, miss," the receptionist said, his tone more cautious now as he straightened in his chair. "But… let me see if I can pull up anything that isn't classified. Please, just give me a moment..."

He turned to a separate console just out of Iria's view, his fingers moving rapidly across the keyboard, driven by an urgency that hadn't been there moments ago. As he worked, he paused briefly to adjust his glasses, which had been knocked slightly askew during Iria's outburst. Despite her lingering frustration, Iria crossed her arms and leaned against the counter, her sharp gaze shifting over her shoulder to the Corporation guard who continued to size her up.

Catching his watchful stare, Iria shot him an uncomplimentary glare, as if daring him to say something. The guard hesitated, then quickly looked away, pretending to busy himself with something else. Smirking faintly, she returned her attention to the desk, her patience wearing thin as she tapped her foot against the floor in a steady rhythm. With a deep breath, she tried to calm her nerves, tilting her head back to stretch out her neck, her hair beads clicking softly against her armored back plate as she did so.

"Hmm…" the receptionist muttered under his breath, pulling Iria's focus back to him. His brow furrowed as he unleashed a flurry of keystrokes, his expression growing more perplexed by the second.

"That's… odd," he murmured, half to himself.

"What's odd?" Iria demanded, leaning forward slightly to catch a glimpse of the screen.

The man continued typing, his focus glued to the console. "Truth be told," he began, his voice tinged with hesitation, "just moments before you arrived, our system marked the Sabaku Mining Colony Contract 346-A as fulfilled. Payment was recorded as received by an account… outside of Tedan Tippedai and Administration purview. Essentially, it went to a private fund."

He paused, his fingers hovering over the keys, before adding, "The details of the account were… inaccessible to me."

Iria arched an eyebrow, suspicion sharpening her gaze. "That sounds like something you're not supposed to be telling me," she said, her tone laced with curiosity. "So why are you?"

The receptionist flushed slightly, visibly unnerved. "This can't be right," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "I'm the one who authorized the transaction. But now…" He delayed, his confusion deepening as he scanned the data. "Now it's saying the payment was rerouted. It ended up in a Hunter's individual account."

Iria rolled her eyes, her tone dripping with satire. "Let me guess," she snorted, "Mr. Hero with the big knives, right?"

The receptionist looked up at her, his face pale. He glanced back at the screen, the silence stretching longer than Iria had patience for.

"No…" he finally said, his voice softer than before, almost uncertain.

Iria sighed heavily, her irritation foaming to the surface. "Stop with the suspense already," she snapped. "Who?"

"Hunter's Registration #9799-5," the receptionist said in a cautious, almost guarded tone.

Iria's dark brown eyes remained fixed on him, widening in sudden confusion and bewilderment. She blinked, the number echoing in her mind like a puzzle piece that obviously didn't fit. The man glanced up at her briefly, his expression mirroring her own bewilderment, before turning back to his screen. With a few quick taps on the keyboard, he sent the data to his handheld tablet, the device lighting up with a soft glow as it processed the transfer.

"In other words…" he added, holding out the tablet for her to see, his own confusion unmistakable. "...You?"

Iria stared down at the screen in stunned silence. Her dossier from Administration and Ghomvack Securities filled the display, complete with her photograph and personal details. The familiar image of herself stared back at her, framed by her professional history and credentials.

"But—" she stammered, her voice faltering as her mind raced. "I've been standing here the whole time." She shook her head as she glanced down to the risen plate of her large, white gauntlet that encased her forearm. "You think I would be this pissed off if I had gotten an alert already?

The receptionist hesitated, his gaze darting back to his monitor as though searching for answers in the data. "Well, that's only half of it," he said, his voice carrying a note of strained disbelief. "The transfer… it trickled down to you from another account. You were listed as a beneficiary to the record."

"What account?" Iria demanded, her tone sharper now, though curiosity tinged her words.

"It's strange," the receptionist continued, his brow furrowing as he plucked at a few more keys. "The account it originated from has been inactive for quite some time. Nearly cycled out of the system entirely." His fingers danced over the keyboard, entering a string of computations as Iria leaned in closer, her gaze tracking his every move.

Finally, he stopped, motioning toward the small datapad he had been working on. "This account…" he said, trailing off as he turned it toward her once more.

Iria's eyes scanned back down to the screen...

The Hunter's shoulders sank, her breath hitching as a quiet gasp broke through her sudden stillness. The realization struck her with a weight that seemed to drain the strength from her limbs, leaving her rooted in place. Her hands gripped the edge of the desk, trembling as her fingers pressed into the unyielding surface, seeking stability against the emergent tide of emotion surging through her.

"...Gren?" she whispered, her voice barely audible, fragile as a breath.

Iria's eyes locked onto the datapad, her breath catching in her throat. Where her own photo had once been displayed, a different image now stared back at her—a handsome young man with pale green hair that fell straight, a few strands brushing across his dark, piercing eyes. The name tied to the ID glowed on the screen, unchanging, just as his gaze in the photo seemed to hold hers: Gren. It couldn't be a simple clerical error, she thought. It was too specific. Her big brother. Her protector. Her everything. Her heart pounded violently, her mind reeling as it tried to reconcile the impossible with reality. The information displayed was sparse, but its meaning cut deeper than any blade. Not with the wave of memories surging forward, each one vivid and merciless.

She saw Gren as he used to be—the way he tousled her hair when she was upset, the steady reassurance in his voice when he promised they'd get through anything, no matter how hard. She heard their laughter echoing through time, felt the unspoken bond they shared during missions, the quiet understanding that had carried them through so much. She remembered the sadness, too—the distance that sometimes crept between them, only to be bridged by the strength of their connection. And then, like a knife twisting in her chest, she remembered their last conversation on board the Karma, how it was up to her to watch after herself from then on. His words, his smile, his unwavering belief in her—how she had always wanted to be just like him.

Her tough exterior, the protection she wore to keep herself moving forward, crumbled under the weight of those memories. A tremor ran through her body, and she felt the burn of tears welling in her eyes, threatening to spill over. She clenched her teeth, trying to hold them back, but the image of that fateful day burned brightly in her mind. The day she'd killed Zeiram—the moment her weapon fired and pierced the abomination that had consumed her brother. She could still see his eyes, clear and fierce even in those final moments, silently telling her to do what had to be done. The agony of that painful choice, the loss of the person who had been her guiding star, had never truly left her. And now, inexplicably, his name—his unmoving stare—was here, tied to an account that shouldn't have come back to the surface.

"Do you know this person…?" The receptionist's voice broke through her spiraling thoughts, pulling her back to the present.

Her gaze shot up to meet his, and he flinched at the sight. Her dark brown eyes were wide, glassy with unshed tears, and filled with an almost haunted look. She stared at him as though he were the ghost, her expression distant yet brimming with shock and anguish.

Her fingers hovered over the screen, trembling as if the photo might somehow bridge the impossible gap and bring him back to her. Her chest tightened with a tumultuous blend of disbelief, grief, and an ache so profound it defied description. Gren had been gone for a year—a sacrifice etched into her every being, a wound that refused to heal. And yet, his face lingered here, a ghost dredged up by something far beyond her understanding. It was as if fate was cruelly demanding she confront his shadow once more, stirring questions she wasn't ready to face and emotions she had fought so hard to bury.

"Miss…?" he asked again, his voice quieter now, tinged with a concern that cut through his professional demeanor. He shifted uncomfortably, squirming under her gaze, as if he'd accidentally touched a live wire.

Iria didn't respond. She couldn't. The name on the screen, the weight of the memories crashing over her—it all consumed her, leaving her in a silence heavier than words could fill.

Iria took a shaky step back from the desk, her body stiff as though any sudden movement might cause her to crumble completely. Her fingers, trembling and unsure, fell to her sides, leaving the glowing datapad and its haunting revelation behind. Her mind raced, replaying the sight of Gren's face over and over like a relentless echo. It was there, undeniable and cruel, stirring memories that clawed at her already fragile heart she thought she had steeled.

She turned slowly, her movements wooden, her gaze unfocused as she began to walk toward the exit. Her boots clicked softly against the lustrous floor, the sound eerily distant in her ears. Her breath came in shallow, uneven bursts, as if her body couldn't decide whether to hold it in or let it all out in a desperate gasp. Each step felt heavier than the last, and she could feel the invisible eyes of the room's occupants following her. The weight of their stares—their curiosity, their concern, their quiet judgment—pressed down on her like lead.

"Miss…?" the receptionist called after her, his voice hesitant and nervous, but there was an edge of genuine worry. "Do you… do you want me to look into this more for you? I can—"

She didn't answer, didn't even look back. Her shoulders were rigid, her pace quickening as his voice faded behind her. Her mind was too loud, filled with Gren's voice, his laughter, the steady reassurances that had carried her through so many storms. But she wasn't strong right now. The image of him tied to that account had cracked something deep inside her, a pain thought long buried over the course of the year without him.

The faces of the people she passed blurred together, their whispers and sidelong glances buzzing in the air around her. She could feel their judgment seeping into her skin—was she the Hunter who'd just made a scene? The woman too fragile to take bad news? Or maybe they pitied her, that quiet, condescending sympathy she hated more than anything. Her chest tightened as the weight became unbearable.

Before long, her composure broke. Her walk turned into a run, her boots pounding against the floor in a desperate rhythm. The tears she'd been holding back came in a hot, unstoppable torrent, spilling freely down her cheeks and falling do onto her armor. Her breath hitched and cracked as the sobs came, shaking her frame with every step.

She couldn't get away fast enough—from the whispers, from the stares, from the overwhelming deluge of memories. Gren was everywhere now. His voice, so steady and warm. His face, his strength, his sacrifice—they consumed her. The way he trusted her, even when it meant the end for him. The way she'd always wanted to live up to the standard he set. And the way he'd always been there, even when the world fell apart.

But now…? Only a vicious reminder it that he really was gone.

The hallway stretched endlessly before her, her vision blurred by tears. She wasn't running toward anything—she was running away. Away from the name on the screen. Away from the truth she thought she had pushed away.

After finally escaping the suffocating corridors of the Corporation headquarters, Iria stepped into the harsh embrace of Myce's blinding afternoon sun. The unforgiving heat bore down on her as she approached the Kreper parked in front of the towering spire, her steps slow and heavy. Her boots scraped against the dusty pavement, and the dry air stung her cheeks, pulling at the remnants of her tears. Climbing into the driver's seat, her fingers trembled as they wrapped around the controls. For a moment, she sat motionless, the steady hum of the Kreper's engines the only sound in the oppressive stillness, filling the void left by her spiraling thoughts.

She considered hailing Bob, the thought tugging at her as she hadn't spoken to him since Sabuku, when their comm had abruptly gone silent. Perhaps his voice, his steady presence, could anchor her back to reality. But the idea faltered almost as quickly as it arose. She couldn't bring herself to let him see or hear her like this—fragile, shaken, a far cry from the Hunter she had worked so hard to become. Not after this long...

Iria inhaled deeply, her trembling hands gradually steadying against the controls. As the Kreper lifted off the ground and skimmed over the twisting streets and overlapping byways of Myce City, the hum of the engines began to soothe her frayed nerves. The sharp sting of her grief dulled slightly, replaced by the tangled questions swirling in her mind. She passed beneath the endless rows of towering buildings, their wide, capped steeples and the maze of cables and supports that stretched between them casting fragmented shadows over her path. Her thoughts drifted, the motion of the streets blending into a rhythmic, almost hypnotic pattern as her mind replayed the events of the day.

The image of the helmeted man from the mining colony surfaced, unbidden. His measured movements, the sharp exactness in his every action—they nagged at her, stirring something unsettling deep within. His presence had been purposeful, and as much of a prick as he was, there had been an undeniable familiarity to the way he carried himself. Iria couldn't shake the feeling that his appearance, combined with the strange events at Tedan Tippedai, was no mere coincidence. The threads of connection dangled just out of her reach, leaving her even more uneasy.

As the sprawling cityscape gradually thinned into the dusty, craggy outskirts, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The knot of malaise in her chest tightened further, though she refused to let it consume her. The questions demanded answers, but they would have to wait.

When her home finally came into view, perched on its tall stilts against the rocky terrain, she felt the faintest easing of tension. Her shoulders loosened, and she inhaled deeply, taking in the dry, warm air. Through the wide windows on the second floor, she caught sight of Kei and Fujikuro. Even from this distance, their constant bickering was unmistakable, though thankfully inaudible. The sight anchored her, pulling her away from the tempest raging in her mind.

Guiding the Kreper into the garage, she powered down the craft and sat in silence for a moment, collecting herself. With a slow, deliberate motion, she wiped away the smudged trails of tears from her gritty, dirt-streaked face. Steeling herself, she grabbed her weapons, slung them over her shoulder, and stepped out of the craft. She let her tired feet carry her to the elevator.

The lift hummed softly as it ascended to the living quarters. When it came to a stop, the doors slid open, and Iria stepped out with sharp, purposeful movements, shoving them aside without care for subtlety. Her boots hit the floor with heavy, deliberate thuds as she entered, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet space.

Fujikuro lounged lazily on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, idly flipping the remote between his fingers. His expression was one of bored detachment, his gaze fixed on the holo-screen next to Bob's spinning AI projection. The moment he heard Iria enter, however, his head turned toward her, his casual demeanor betraying a faint undercurrent of expectation.

"How'd the pickup go...?" he asked, his tone light but laced with subtle curiosity.

Iria didn't respond. She stopped at the coarse mat by the door, absently wiping her boots as her gaze shifted toward a row of framed photos arranged neatly on a shelf near her bedroom door to the left. Her eyes lingered on them, her expression unreadable, while her hand lightly traced the edge of the door frame. For several long moments, she stood there, the subtle scuffing of her boots against the mat the only sign of movement, before she finally tore her gaze away and continued on.

Fujikuro, taken aback by her uncharacteristic silence, cast a sidelong glance in her direction. His usually indifferent demeanor shifted slightly, a flicker of veiled concern crossing his face. "Kid…?" he ventured, his voice hesitant.

Without so much as a glance in his direction, Iria marched past him, her shoulders stiff, her head lowered, each step deliberate and heavy. Fujikuro blinked, his confusion deepening as he watched her pass. Scratching the back of his head, he muttered under his breath, "Is that a good sign… or a bad one?"

"They didn't pay me," Iria said softly, her voice so low it barely reached him. She stopped by the window, unfastening her rifle before hanging it on the rack. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as though every action cost her more than it should. She lingered there for a moment, her back to Fujikuro, staring out at the horizon through the glass, the faint light casting long shadows across the room.

"What do you mean they didn't pay you?!" Bob's voice rang out from his usual spot on the computer screen, his projection spinning sharply, reflecting his agitation.

"HA!" Fujikuro barked out a laugh, slapping his knee in mock triumph. "I told ya so! Those corporate types don't give a damn about—"

"Wait, what?" Kei's voice cut through like a whip as she stormed out of the kitchen, a dish towel still in hand, her scowl darkening with every step. "What the hell happened? You did the job, didn't you? You finished it! How could they not pay you?"

Iria didn't respond. Her silence was heavy, uncharacteristic, and impossible to ignore. She turned away from the window, her movements deliberate and slow, as if weighed down by something far heavier than exhaustion. Her hands moved to unfasten the straps of her upper body armor, each motion methodical and distant.

Iria tugged at the straps of her armor, letting the pieces fall away with little care, dropping them unceremoniously onto the growing pile of dirty clothes, gloves, and equipment by the wall. The clang of the blue-stained metal hitting the floor echoed in the quiet room. Reaching up, she tussled her hair, fingers combing through the tangled strands mussed from her journey in the Kreper. She gave her head a small shake, dislodging the stubborn grains of Sabuku sand that clung to her. Her hairbeads clinked softly, a rapid, rhythmic sound as her fingers moved absentmindedly through the strands. She focused on the motion, clinging to the small, tangible task.

"Okay, seriously," Fujikuro said, sitting up slightly. His tone lost its usual humor, taking on an edge of genuine concern. With a flick of the remote, he turned off the holo-screen and placed it on the short table in front of him. "What happened? Did they say why?"

Iria flinched slightly at his question, the reality of the answer slicing through her like a blade. She stiffened, biting back the sniffle that threatened to escape, trying to hide it from them.

Kei, standing nearby with her arms crossed, scowled as she took a step closer. "Iria, you're acting weird," she said, her voice sharp but edged with concern.

Still, Iria didn't answer. She moved slowly, deliberately, toward the couch and sank down beside Fujikuro. Her movements were heavy, as though weighed down by an invisible force. She slumped forward, her shoulders hunched, and after a moment, buried her face in her hands. Her elbows rested on her knees as she sat there, silent and unmoving.

The room fell into an uneasy stillness, broken only by the faint hum of Bob's projection. Kei opened her mouth to speak again, but seeing Iria's state, she hesitated. Her expression softened slightly as she glanced at Fujikuro, the two exchanging a wordless look.

"Iria…?" Kei ventured again, her voice quieter this time, tinged with concern. She tossed the dish towel she'd been holding onto the kitchen counter and stepped closer, hesitant.

Iria remained still, her head in her hands, her fingers gently massaging her scalp through the thick, reddish-brown strands of her hair. Her breathing was steady but shallow, the weight of the moment keeping her anchored to the spot.

Finally, she broke the silence, her voice monotone and distant. "Bob," she said without lifting her head, "there's not a digital credit on my account from Tedan Tippedai in the last hour or so, right?"

Bob's projection blinked, his flickering golden form tilting slightly as if to express confusion. "Let me check…" He paused, his orb spinning briefly as he ran his computations. "No, Iria. But… didn't you already say they hadn't paid you?"

Iria didn't respond immediately, her fingers curling tighter against her scalp as her thoughts churned. Kei and Fujikuro exchanged another worried glance.

"Yeah…" Iria finally murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She looked up with a faint sniffle, her crestfallen eyes drifting toward the window. Her gaze was far-off, distant, as if searching for something she couldn't find. She pulled her arms tighter around her knees, tugging absently at her long navy sleeves, their fabric suddenly stifling against her skin. "...I know."

The room fell into a heavy silence, the kind that seemed to stretch time. Kei and Fujikuro exchanged puzzled glances before their eyes returned to Iria, who sat motionless, her expression a quiet storm of thoughts she wasn't sharing.

Fujikuro studied her, his usual smirk replaced by a frown that deepened with each passing second. Though he would never admit it aloud, worry crept into his gaze, a rare crack in his tough, indifferent exterior. Something far worse than a missed payday was eating at her—he could feel it. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Hey, kid… it's okay," he said, his voice softer than usual, trying to sound reassuring. "We'll make the pay up somehow, you know—"

Iria pushed her hands against her knees and stood abruptly, cutting him off mid-sentence. Her movements were stiff, her focus elsewhere as she reached for the zipper on her dusty, long boots.

"I'm going to take a shower," she said flatly, her tone devoid of emotion. She hobbled toward her bedroom door mid-stride, fumbling with the straps on her boots as walked across the room.

Kei watched Iria's retreat, her expression shifting from confusion to growing concern. Slowly, she traced Iria's path, her steps tentative. She glanced at Fujikuro, her blue eyes searching his face for answers he didn't have. He shifted uncomfortably, his flush betraying an understanding he wasn't ready to voice.

As she approached the door frame, her steps faltered, her gaze flicking to the photo she had lingered on earlier. She reached up, her fingers brushing against the rigid bamboo frame. Without hesitation, she turned it face-down with a single, deliberate motion. Her hand lingered on the back of the frame for just a moment before she withdrew it and stepped through the door. The soft hiss of the door sliding shut behind her left the room eerily still.

Turning her attention back to the shelf, Kei stood on her toes and carefully took the photo Iria had laid down. She flipped it over in her hands, her small fingers running over the ridged bamboo frame. The image within stared back at her—her gaze softened as she studied the photo. a younger Iria, clad in her very first set of Ghomvack armor, her face alight with pride and joy. The exuberance in Iria's beaming smile starkly at odds with the despondent figure who had just walked out of the room. Beside her stood a tall young man with pale green hair, his arm slung protectively over her shoulders.

His prideful smile, familiar to the young girl had only photos like this one, frozen in time.