Ethan stared at them. Three against one. Two armed with blunt weapons, one, the woman, probably with a knife. Three meters of distance. Behind them, the dark corridor he could use to escape. But [Quick Step] only lasted five seconds, enough to get away, not enough to disappear.

  He could escape now. But if he escaped, they would know he had an ability. They would give chase. Find out where he lived. Or he could stay still. Pay. Submit like the other cleaners.

  'Coward.'

  The word appeared in his head, and Ethan realized he didn't like the feel of it.

  "My salary is eighty coins a week," he said finally, his voice flat. "Twenty percent means sixteen coins. Enough to buy food for three days."

  The bald man nodded. "Quick math. I like it. So you agree?"

  Ethan shook his head.

  Silence.

  The bald man's face changed, not angry, but confused. As though he couldn't believe a cleaner would refuse. "You said no?"

  "The math is right," said Ethan. "But the problem is, I don't like sharing."

  The red-haired woman laughed briefly. "He's funny."

  The bald man didn't laugh. "You think this is a joke, cleaner?"

  [Danger Sense] — Warning: Physical attack within 1 second.

  Ethan moved before his brain had time to process.

  Not backward but sideways.

  The bald man's club struck the spot where his head had just been, hitting the brick wall with an ear-splitting crack. Stone fragments flew. The man stumbled, off-balance from the swing that missed.

  Ethan didn't wait.

  He ran.

  But not toward his rented room. He ran toward the dark corridor on the other side, where he knew there was a fork leading to narrow alleys. [Quick Step] remained unused, only ordinary reflexes, adrenaline, and six months of being accustomed to running from monsters.

  "CHASE HIM!" the woman shouted.

  Heavy footsteps behind. Ethan flung himself around the bend, entering a darker corridor with only one light at the end, fifty meters away. On the left and right, stacks of cardboard and garbage sacks. The rotten smell from the open drainage ditch. His breath was ragged. His heart pounded, not from fear, but from focus. Count. Measure. Plan.

  [Quick Step] had three uses. But if he used it now, they would see. They would know. And that information was more dangerous than the club.

  Not yet.

  He kept running. The light at the end drew closer, thirty meters, then twenty, then ten. And from the side corridor, suddenly a man appeared, blocking his path.

  The second man, the one who had been silent at the back, had apparently taken a shortcut, cutting through a parallel corridor. He stood under the light, club in hand, smiling broadly.

  "Got you."

  [Danger Sense] — Warning: Attack from behind in 3, 2—

  Ethan threw himself to the floor.

  The iron pipe from behind shot over his head, so close it swept his hair aside. The bald man roared, his second swing missed because the target had vanished.

  Ethan rolled away, and then when he was in a half-standing position, he made a decision.

  [Quick Step] — Active.

  The world faded.

  Not blurred, but he could still see. However, everything moved in a strange slow motion. Droplets of water from a leaking pipe above fell into a puddle, their ripples spreading slowly like an oil painting. Dust particles, lifted by his movements, floated in the air like gold powder in the neon light. And his body moved at a speed he had never felt before.

  Three hundred percent.

  He shot past the second man like wind. Past the light. Past the stack of cardboard. He entered another corridor, darker and narrower, full of electrical cables dangling from the walls.

  Five seconds.

  Four.

  Three.

  At the end of the corridor, he saw a gap, a genuine dead-end alley, but at its end stood an old iron fence. Beyond the fence, the black river of The Grime flowed slowly, carrying garbage and factory waste.

  Two.

  One.

  [Quick Step] ended.

  Ethan staggered, almost falling. The muscles in his legs screamed because [Quick Step] was not teleportation but extreme acceleration. His body wasn't accustomed to it. He had run fifty meters in five seconds, a speed that should only be achievable by Tier 3 Rankers with special skills.

  But he had no time to feel the pain.

  Behind him, the sound of footsteps persisted. Faint. They hadn't given up yet.

  Ethan grabbed the iron fence. It was rusted and three meters tall, but there was a hole at the bottom where children usually squeezed through. He slid down, crawled, felt the cold iron scrape his back, and then he fell on the other side with a splash into the river mud.

  Stillness.

  He froze there, hiding behind a pile of old tires, holding his breath. His heartbeat pounded hard in his ears, too hard, like a war drum.

  Footsteps stopped on the other side of the fence.

  "Tch, gone." The bald man's voice, angry and frustrated. "Where did he go?"

  "Check the other corridors." The woman's voice. "He must still be around here."

  "Better to pull back. This area is getting busy." The second man's voice.

  "He saw our faces."

  "He's a cleaner. Who's he going to report to? Aether Corps?" Bitter laughter. "Leave it. Find someone else."

  Footsteps moved away. Slowly. One by one, until finally only the sound of the black river and the hum of factory machines in the distance remained.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Ethan waited.

  Five minutes.

  Ten.

  [Danger Sense] — No threats in the vicinity.

  Only then did he dare to exhale.

  He rose from his hiding place with weak knees. The black river mud smeared his uniform, and the smell of sulfur and oil stung his nose. Above, the sky of The Grime was never truly dark, for the yellowish haze from the city lights of The Halo created the illusion of eternal dusk. Ethan crawled along the riverbank, looking for a way up. It took fifteen minutes to find an iron ladder leading to another corridor, and ten more minutes to ensure no one was following.

  When he finally arrived at the alley behind his rented room, his body was trembling, not from fear, but from adrenaline beginning to ebb. He leaned against the damp brick wall, bowed his head, and for the first time that night, he opened the system screen.

  [THE DUNGEON CLEANER'S LEDGER — UPDATE]

  Skill Used:- [Quick Step] (1x) — Remaining uses: 2/3 (24-hour cooldown)

  Stench Added: +3Current

  Stench Level: 11/100

  Effect: **Noticeable** — Monsters are beginning to be more aggressive.

  They are "curious" why you smell like a corpse but are still alive.

  Warning: Stench Level 30 will open access to [Necropolis of Failures].

  Ethan read the notification, then closed the screen. Eleven. Up three points just because of five seconds of running.

  But it was worth it.

  He began stepping toward the door of his rented room, a rusted iron door in a dead-end alley, when something on the ground caught his attention.

  A body.

  Behind a pile of wet cardboard, beside an overflowing trash bin, a man lay in an unnatural position. His black robe was crumpled, and his cloth hat had fallen off. His eyes were open but not seeing anything.

  Ethan approached. The reflex of his profession. A corpse in an alley was a common thing in The Grime, whether drunks who froze to death, addicts who overdosed on cheap potions, or simply those who had been "disappeared" by rival thugs.

  But this man was different.

  At his waist, a small pouch, a thief's pouch. In his hand, a dagger, short and dark, not reflecting light. And on his neck, a small tattoo, an inverted triangle with a horizontal line across it. A symbol Ethan didn't recognize.

  [Danger Sense] was silent.

  Ethan knelt, reaching for the man's wrist. Still warm. Dead less than an hour.

  The world spun.

  A building rooftop. Night. This man, younger and more alert, was running across the rooftop tiles, leaping across the gaps. Behind him, shadows gave chase.

  "I got the goods," he hissed, holding a small bundle to his chest. "Just need to get down, rendezvous with the team—"

  The roof tile beneath him cracked, and then he fell.

  Two seconds in the air. Enough for one final thought: 'I should have used [Silent Footstep] so they wouldn't hear my steps on the roof...'

  Impact.

  Ethan snapped back to the alley. His hand still gripped the man's wrist, a Thief who had died because of a misstep. Fallen from a height. Broken neck. No significant external wounds, only the body in the wrong position.

  The blue screen flickered.

  [Residual Regret Detected]

  Source: Thief — Tier 2 (Unidentified)

  Final Words: "I should have used [Silent Footstep]... so they wouldn't hear my steps on the roof..."

  Skill Acquired: [Silent Footstep] (Tier 2)

  Status: Stable

  Compatibility: 87%

  [Silent Footstep (Tier 2)]

  Effect: Footsteps make no sound for 30 seconds.

  Uses: 3x before 24-hour cooldown.

  Source: Thief who died falling because his steps were heard.

  Note: Effective for escaping pursuit. Combination with [Danger Sense] creates high synergy.

  Ethan read the description, then stared at the corpse before him. This Thief might have been part of the same gang as the thugs earlier, or perhaps from a rival gang. It didn't matter. What mattered was that he had just obtained a skill that would be very useful tonight.

  Footsteps making no sound for thirty seconds.

  He stared at the dark alley around him. The thugs might still be roaming. But with this skill...

  For a moment, Ethan almost smiled. Not a happy smile, but an ironic one. He had just nearly died at the hands of thugs, then he had found another thug's corpse dead foolishly, and now he had the ability to avoid them all.

  'Poetic justice,' he thought. He straightened the Thief's robe, closing his eyes, aligning his legs. Then, without sound, he rose and stepped toward the door of his rented room.

  The thirty seconds of [Silent Footstep] he didn't need to use. Tonight, he just wanted to sleep.

  Morning came with gray light creeping through the gaps in the windows. Ethan woke with a body still aching, for the muscles in his legs protested yesterday's use of [Quick Step]. He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbed his face, then opened the system screen.

  [CURRENT STATUS]

  Stored Skills:

  - [Danger Sense] (Tier 2) — Passive

  - [Lesser Regeneration] (Tier 2) — Passive

  - [Iron Skin] (Tier 2) — Active (10 seconds, 1-hour cooldown)

  - [Arcane Explosion (Degraded)] (Tier 4) — Active (1x, 24-hour cooldown)

  - [Quick Step] (Tier 2) — Active (2/3, 24-hour cooldown)

  - [Silent Footstep] (Tier 2) — Active (3/3, 24-hour cooldown)

  Stench Level: 11/100 — Noticeable

  Six skills. Within a week, he had collected more abilities than some Tier 2 Rankers who had trained for years.

  But Stench Level eleven meant monsters would start getting more aggressive. The lower floors might still be safe, but if he went deeper down...

  He exhaled a long breath, closed the screen, and got ready for headquarters.

  Sanitation Headquarters that morning was busier than usual. The night shift team had just returned, and the morning shift team was preparing to depart. In the canteen, several cleaners sat with bowls of instant noodles, chatting in low voices.

  Ethan took his coffee, the same thick black liquid as yesterday, and sat at his usual table.

  Before five minutes had passed, Ronald appeared.

  The old man walked with heavy steps, his prosthetic iron arm swinging at his side. In his hand, he carried something wrapped in a worn cloth. He sat across from Ethan without speaking, placed the bundle on the table, and then pushed it gently toward him.

  "What is this?" asked Ethan.

  Ronald sipped his drink first. For a long time. Then, with an unusually hoarse voice, he said, "Open it."

  Ethan opened the cloth. Inside lay a prosthetic arm.

  Not a sophisticated arm like Ronald's with no complex hinges or kinetic energy absorbers. Just an iron tube forty centimeters long, with a leather grip at one end and something like an arm guard at the other. On its surface, rough engravings, lines that were perhaps intended as decoration but looked more like a child's scrawlings.

  Ethan stared at it. Then stared at Ronald.

  "This is..."

  "For protection." Ronald cut him off, his voice flat. "You look like an easy target."

  Ethan didn't know what to say.

  Ronald continued, "I made it from scrap iron in the warehouse. Not good material, but strong enough to withstand a club strike, or at least reduce its impact. Wear it on your left arm. If you can fit it on your right arm, go ahead. But you're left-handed, aren't you?"

  Ethan nodded slowly.

  "Smart." Ronald sipped his drink again. "I noticed. You always hold the sprayer with your right hand, so your left hand is for balance. So protect your left hand."

  Ethan held the prosthetic. Heavy, maybe three or four kilograms. Cold. Rough. But behind its roughness, there was something warm. He looked at Ronald. The old man wasn't looking back at him, for his eyes were fixed on the cup in his hand, on the murky liquid inside it, on something unseen.

  "Last night," said Ethan quietly. "I was followed by thugs. Three people."

  Ronald didn't move. But his jaw tightened.

  "I escaped," Ethan continued. "Went into an alley, climbed over a fence, hid by the river. They didn't find me."

  Silence.

  Then Ronald said, "Good."

  That was all. No 'you did well' or 'thank goodness you're safe.' Just 'good.' Like a father who heard his child had passed a test, with no need for excessive praise because it was already expected.

  Ethan looked down, staring at the prosthetic in his hands. "Thank you."

  Ronald snorted. "Don't thank me yet. That's just scrap iron. If you want to show gratitude, treat me to a drink next week."

  Ethan almost smiled. "On credit first."

  "Yeah, you always say that." Ronald stood, stretching his back which cracked. "I'm on the afternoon shift. You rest."

  He walked away, leaving Ethan alone with the prosthetic in his hands.

  Ethan stared at the object for a long time. On its rough iron surface, he could see his own reflection, a tired face, sleep-deprived eyes, disheveled hair. A cleaner who had just escaped death.

  'This is the first time in six months,' he thought, 'that someone has given me something. Not because of duty. Not because of obligation. But because Ronald cares.'

  He gripped the prosthetic tightly. The cold iron felt warm in his palm.

  In his chest, [Danger Sense] pulsed slowly, not a warning, just a presence. Like a second heartbeat. Like a reminder that he was still alive. Ethan drew a long breath, then rose. He wound the cloth around the prosthetic, stored it in his bag, and stepped out of the canteen toward the break room.

  In the headquarters corridor, the neon light still hummed at the same low tone. Several morning shift cleaners passed him, nodding lazily, then walked on.

  Ethan nodded back.

  And for the first time, he felt he was not alone.

  Outside, on the same giant advertising board, Magnus Drevar was still smiling with his salesman's smile. "Our cleaning services are the most trusted," the advertisement whispered in its eternal loop, indifferent to the real cleaners walking beneath it. Ethan didn't look at the advertisement. No need.

  Because in his hands, the iron prosthetic made by Ronald felt heavier than all the skyscrapers in The Spire combined.

  And in his chest, [Silent Footstep] pulsed slowly, a new skill, a new life, a new story he would keep. He stepped into the break room, lay back in the same folding chair, and for the first time in a week, he slept without nightmares.