CHAPTER THREE.

YOU HAVE FIVE SHOTS IN YOU.

One flu shot back from your previous body back when you were seven, and another shot by a needle from whatever the druggies on the street were getting themselves high on (you weren't an addict; but you didn't shun the use of substances. It did you some good to use the drug as an ultimatum, almost, to fuck over the spineless men on the street that took from the world and gave their shitty existences in return.) And then two shots of vodka that had slithered down your throat.

Lastly, one 9mm caliber bullet that's currently lodged on your shoulder, just a little shy of your jugular.

It hurts like hell. The vodka, not the goddamn bullet. The vodka tastes like shit; like drain water from another shitty rainstorm in this city. Infinitum is a vast complex divided by castes—your city, commonly known as the XinHua District, is painted to be the highest, most glorious one—a sprawling metropolis known for its exquisite architecture (with the places screaming cyberpunk and AI littered everywhere) and it's guilds. Infinitum's top 3% of guilds stay within here. The other places in Infinitum can be less fortunate, dubbed more as towns than cities. You visited Eudora once—a sweet name for a shitty place—and you could count the number of non assholes on your fingers.

XinHua is perfect in many ways. Poverty isn't rampant. But corporate greed is, and so is the amount of substanceless conversations. You've seen people alter their faces in strange ways, replacing their human hands with ones of steel and metal. Replacing their eyes with metal ones. And of course, there is violence—so much of it, but the cleaning robots do a great job of wiping up the messes.

You've insulted an entitled customer (who was trying to fucking rob you), obviously. And now a bullet sits between your ribs. This isn't new to you. In those six years you've learned to endure, to grit your teeth, to learn the pain like it's a second language. Hell, it's probably your mother tongue now. You don't clean it or bother to wipe it up—you leave it open to fester, and down a cheap bottle of vodka. You are definitely able to afford more than that (the bar is technically yours, anyways, and so are the premium champagnes) but shitty alcohol leaves a bad taste on your tongue and allows you to put your mind off the bullet.

You remember many things about your first days in Infinitum. Not all that glitters is gold. ( 闪光的并非都是金子。) You remember scoffing to yourself as you witnessed the flashy display of powers people desperately wished to show—to prove their powers and to become an adventurer. You remember the cleaning robots being demolished by some firepower and having to splash your boots into puddles with upended cockroach corpses and cigarette butts with a wry grin on your face.

You shudder and roll your shoulders. The bullet pulses between your sinew as you shift. The man who has wounded you lays motionless ahead of you, and reeks of the cold vodka you pocketed from him. He's no more of a pile of skin, bones, and blood.

[Name]'s power...you have a grasp of it. You don't have a system window or anything to aid you along. The closest thing you got to a system happened the first few months (the whole affinity point system) but as far as you are concerned, you have no quest, no reason, no life. But the redness that lights your fingertips when you focus is enough to tell you that [Name] is a powerful adventurer.

You showed mercy, in your defense. The thug had tried to rob you first, pulling that lousy ass revolver from his patchy bag. Like any other street trash, he'd slur on about getting the cash before he'd "fuck you up", and then take a throaty swig from that cheap vodka.

So you have heartfully slammed his face against the bar's wall, till every last nicotine-stained tooth was torn from his gums. The man gasped for air, like a rat drinking its own blood, the revolver clattering to the ground just as his frail body did. And that's where you leave him, after snatching that vodka the man was drunk on. ("Pay for your shit.")

You can almost hear Sora's voice praising you. Normally bosses would reprimand, but he doesn't. ("Could've beaten him up more," Sora usually says, before he adds in a hopeful tone: "mind if I do the honor?")

You throw your head back, another breath of thick air filling your lungs. Your fingers twitch as the now-empty vodka bottle leaves its acetic burn in your mouth after your final sip.

The ass vodka only makes you crave more, but instead you toss the bottle aside, allowing it to crash into tiny pieces. You aren't miserable—you aren't depressed, for god's sake—not even an addict. But you admit it's easier to give into more earthy, more sinful desires. Sex, drugs, alcohol—you'll take anything that's tossed easily at you.

You aren't a person that needs saving. C'mon, you're an adult. You aren't made for anyone to hold. You don't need anyone.

You exhale. The pain is starting to lessen. You frown as you check the clock. It's past opening hours—but you wait for the regular customer to come barging in. She's been your medic (unofficial) for years, and she's reprimanded you countless times on the fights you find yourself embroiled in. She's an A-Class healer, which is pretty rare, considering healing attributes so high class are rare.

You wait. You count the seconds in your head.

Three...

Two...

One.

Sure enough, the woman that walks in doesn't bother about the fact the way past opening hours. She has black, short, choppy hair, smooth dark skin, and an outfit that's more sexy than conventional. She doesn't need the protection, though—she's capable of forming shields so strong that an S-Class Adventurer would struggle to break through them. There's always the trademark, perpetual—annoying—smirk on her face. She's undeniably gorgeous, and yet now you've reached an understanding of her warped character to know she's not exactly...moral. But does it matter? It's all part of her little idiosyncrasies. She still helps you, though she demands payment in the form of luxury bags and apartments. Sora sponsors all.

Hell, even her name is expensive. Dior.

"Damn, [Name]," she exhales, "not a pretty sight. It's gonna be more expensive this time round. Might wanna clean that mess up too, or Sora's gonna worry."

"He won't know," you shrug.

"There you have it. My keep quiet fee."

"You're blackmailing me?"

She grins. "Your words, not mine." She crouches by you, her dark eyes flickering from your broken skin to the bullet embedded in you. "Does it even hurt?"

"Not really," you admit shamelessly.

"So it's more of fixing up your appearance. You vain man," Dior clicks her tongue. "But your little—"

"Not my boyfriend," you quickly say.

"Hmm." She says, clearly unconvinced. She taps on your wounds, and you watch as a burst of purple light comes forth from her fingertips to muffle and engulf the wound, rendering it a almost terrifying black that swarms beneath your skin before—

—it's as good as new. While most healers tap on light energy to sustain their spells, Dior does the opposite. She taps on the shadow-like power she somehow has (a failed necromancer attribute, she claims) and channels it instead. And it heals wounds beautifully.

"Now all you got to fix is your personality," Dior dusts her hands, standing up. She pulls you up. "Versace is the fee. And a drink on the house."

"Right," you pause. "So? Old-fashioned with an orange twist garnish? Cosmopolitan?"

Dior winces. "Hard liquor. Just give me something strong. Even that nasty vodka you were downing earlier will do the trick."

"Bad day?"

"Break up," Dior murmurs, before she gives a long sigh. "His loss, though. He had a whole inferiority complex about being a B-Ranker while I'm an A-Ranker. And he gets a lot fewer quests than I do. The guilds don't want him. He turned down the offers from the mediocre ones."

"Mm."

"Hey, you asked me that question! Don't be so uninterested!"

"I say it mechanically," you shrug. "I don't actually want to hear about anyone's day."

"So," Dior purses her lips. "Why aren't you and Sora tying the knot yet? Pretty sure there's legalisation of same sex marriage here at XinHua, right? Unless we're fucking backward."

"There isn't a knot to tie in the first place," you say calmly. "You and Myra are too nosy."

"Jesus, you're as dense as a rock. Why..."

"Well, I don't feel lovable. I think I have an unlovable sort of... I have a coldness about me, I'm difficult to like. I'm not saying this to garner any pity or sympathy or comments," you tell her. "I don't wish to date. Not here, anyways."

The last part slips from your lips. Not here? But if not here, where?

Here, you are in a world of fixed geographies, unchained histories, sundering journeys. You would like to count the years, six, six, seven minus one, two, the defunct years, but you can't.

"But it's the best place in Infinitum. You used to love it. Like—when you were fourteen—"

Fourteen, huh. Not you.

"Here's your drink," you slide it to her, interrupting her smoothly."

"Rude." She sniffs. "You're always here. I never see you at home."

"Sora lets me sleep over sometimes," you mention casually, crossing your arms. "Most of the time, actually. I don't exactly...have a home."

She ignored the last part and focuses on what she thinks is the most salient part of your words. "Holy shit, you sleep over at his home?"

"Yes?" You frown. "Friends do. Aren't you and Myra tight? Surely you have all those girl sleepovers."

"Yes, but I don't habitually live with her in a domestic, loving way," Dior points out. "What, does he cook? Make you some pancakes drizzled with honey for breakfast? Does he—"

He does, actually. He has robots to clean but most of the cooking is done by him. But she doesn't need to know that.

"I think it's perfectly normal," you say a little stiffly. "Got a problem?"

"No, not at all." Dior is amused. She takes one last swig of her drink, and slams it down on the table. "Another drink?"

"I'm not carrying you out if you're drunk."

"Don't need to. I'll crash here."

Dior's strong enough to fight back if anything happens. She has anti-healing properties too, which basically weaponise her abilities. You suppose in this case she fits into the saint part.

"How will you go back, [Name]?"

"Sora will pick me up."

"What?"

"I'll send him a message," you tell Dior. Funnily enough, in this world, they have their own version of messages too. Of phones. But there aren't games—just forum apps, messaging apps, and one for the news, one for keeping track of the leadership boards and the points and the quests m. The phones don't come in the form of hard metal—they come in holograms, in screens, in gadgets you attach to the wrist.

A blue screen lights up before you as you quickly type a message. Within minutes, Sora replied to you—yes, I can pick you up. You didn't get into any trouble?

Dior gives you a sly smile. "Any trouble, he says."

"I'll get you what you want. So shut up about it. Sora likes me beating people up, but not getting hurt."

"Sooo overprotective, I think," Dior waggles her eyebrows. "So cute."

You need another drink to sit through this conversation. You pour yourself a glass, and Dior winks.

"Carpe Diem," Dior clinks her drink with yours. "Seize the day."

—

"You're drunk."

That's impossible. You, of all people, don't get drunk.

"Sora," you slur, your posture drooping. You aren't exactly light—heavy muscles, tall body—so you don't know how the fuck he's helping you stand upright now. Perks of being a top adventurer. The top adventurer. "I'm not drunk, dumbass."

"I've never seen you drunk," Sora says in amusement.

"I don't think I'm drunk," you tell him. "Just tired as fuck. And the shitty alcohol didn't help. It's giving me a migraine."

"Don't drink too much next time, alright?"

"Doesn't matter. You always pick me up, don't you, Prince Charming?"

You can swear Sora fucking reddens at that. You see his frozen expression before you burst into laughter. Your ribs hurt from the intensity of your laugh as you double over.

"You should have seen your face!"

"Not funny, [Name]," Sora sighs. But his sigh is one of fond exasperation. "I'll whip your favorite meal up. A hangover one."

"Y'know, everyone thinks we're dating. Married, even."

Sora stiffens. "And? What do you think?"

You can feel your eyes closing.

"I don't know. Very...good friends, I suppose."

Right, Sora thinks bitterly, very good friends.

Damn it all. Maybe it's time to pick up things a little.

A/N; oh well. hope you liked it!

comment how it was! and remember to add it to your library :)