The second man was already gone. He had fled. Escaped to the end of the alley, toward the crowd, toward wherever that was away from this alley.

  "Hey," the woman's voice was hoarse, caught in her throat. "Hey, we..."

  Ethan looked at her.

  There was no threat in his eyes. No promise of further violence. Only an empty stare that said: do you still want to continue this?

  The red-haired woman stepped back one step. Then two steps. Then the knife in her hand fell to the asphalt with the clang of metal. She turned and ran. The heels of her cheap shoes splashed through puddles, and the sound of receding footsteps echoed in the alley until it finally vanished, swallowed by the night.

  Silence.

  Ethan stood in the middle of the alley, bottle shards still in his hand, the bald man's blood still warm on his skin.

  Before him, the man was still kneeling, bent over, pressing his wound, not daring to look up. His breath came in gasps, from pain, but also from fear. Fear of the thin cleaner who had defeated him in less than thirty seconds.

  Ethan looked down. Looking at the man. Looking at the blood. Looking at the glass shards in his own hand.

  [Danger Sense] was silent. No warning. The fight was over.

  He drew a breath. The night air entered his lungs, the smell of blood, the smell of sweat, the smell of cheap alcohol from the man's breath. His hand, the hand holding the bottle shards, began to tremble.

  Not fear. Not disgust. Not panic.

  Adrenaline.

  Six months working as a cleaner, he had already grown accustomed to danger. Monster pursuits. Emergency overflows. Corpses rotting in dark corners. But this was the first time he had fought back. Not running. Not hiding. But standing in one place, looking the opponent in the eye, and striking back.

  That trembling spread from his hand to his arm, from his arm to his shoulder, from his shoulder to his whole body. His muscles vibrated like a string just released from maximum tension. His knees felt weak. His jaw tightened, trying to stop his teeth from chattering.

  He could fight.

  Not only run. Not only hide. But fight. Resist. Win.

  That thought was strange. Foreign. For six months, his identity had been that of a cleaner, someone who came after the fight was over, who cleaned up the mess left behind by adventurers, who was never involved in violence because it wasn't his job. But tonight, in this squalid alley, he was no longer a cleaner who ran. He was the person who made a thug kneel in his own pool of blood.

  The bald man groaned. "Hospital... I have to go to the hospital..." His voice was desperate, like a small child who was lost.

  Ethan looked at him for a long time. Then, without a single word, he turned around. Stepped away, leaving the man behind. Past the club that had fallen on the asphalt. Past the knife the red-haired woman had left behind. Past the puddle now mixed with red.

  He walked to the door of his rented room. His hands still trembling. The bottle shards still gripped, though already useless. The blood on his hands had begun to dry, sticky, uncomfortable.

  Five steps. Ten. Twenty.

  He reached that rusted iron door. His hand reached for the handle, trembling, still trembling, then stopped.

  The blue screen flickered at the corner of his vision.

  [THE DUNGEON CLEANER'S LEDGER — UPDATE]

  Skills Used in Combat:

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

  - [Iron Skin] (1x) — Remaining uses: Cooldown 1 hour

  - [Danger Sense] (Passive) — Confirmed: Functioning optimally in human combat situations

  Stench Added: +5 Current

  Stench Level: 16/100

  Effect: Noticeable — Monsters will be more aggressive. Humans with high mana sensitivity may begin to "sense" that something is strange about you.

  [Achievement Unlocked: Improvised Weapon]

  Description: Fought and wounded an opponent using cleaning equipment or surrounding objects.

  Reward: +1 DEX when using non-weapons. Passive effect.

  Ethan read the notification. Stench sixteen. Up five points just for thirty seconds of fighting. Added to [Quick Step] yesterday night, total eleven, now sixteen, still below the safe threshold of thirty, but approaching. Too close.

  He closed the screen. Opened the door. Entered the cramped room barely large enough for one bed, one small wardrobe, and one folding chair. He sat on that chair, his legs no longer able to bear his weight, and placed the bottle shards on the floor.

  His hands were still trembling.

  He stared at them. The right palm full of dried blood, the bald man's blood, not his own. Between his fingers, under his nails, in the deep lines of his palm. He needed to clean them. But for a while, he just sat, staring at his hands, feeling the trembling gradually subside.

  In his chest, the five skills pulsed at different rhythms. [Danger Sense] passive, always present. [Quick Step] with one remaining use. [Iron Skin] in cooldown. [Lesser Regeneration] working quietly, repairing the bruise on his arm. [Silent Footstep] unused, intact.

  And in the depths there, [Arcane Explosion] slept, the Tier 4 skill he hadn't used, didn't need, didn't dare to use.

  He could fight. Without offensive skills. Without great magic. Only with a combination of defensive skills, common sense, and a used bottle.

  That thought was strangely calming. Not because he wanted to fight again, as he didn't want to. But because he knew, if forced, he could.

  One hour later, Ethan emerged from the communal bathroom at the end of the alley. His hair still wet, his uniform already changed to a worn shirt and black long trousers. The smell of blood was gone, replaced by cheap soap sold at the corner stall, soap with an "Ocean Breeze" aroma that in no way resembled the sea.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  He walked home.

  The night in The Grime was never truly dark. Neon lights from the surrounding buildings created a yellowish haze in the low sky, like an eternal dusk that never changed into complete night. In the distance, the black mouth of The Infinite Maw gaped like a giant's mouth, occasionally spurting glowing vapor from its depths, a sign that on some floor below, a great battle was taking place.

  Ethan walked slowly. His body was tired. Not only physically, as his muscles still felt like they had been stretched too far, but also mentally. The fight earlier had drained more than he had expected.

  He passed the same corridor. The same puddles. The same smell of garbage. But everything felt different. Or perhaps it was he who was different.

  At the bend toward the dead-end alley, he stopped.

  A girl sat on a pile of wet cardboard beside the trash bin. Perhaps sixteen, perhaps nineteen, and it was hard to guess. Long silver hair hanging disheveled, as though it had never been combed for weeks. A small face, with large green eyes behind round glasses too large for her face. A worn brown robe full of pockets, pockets at the stomach, pockets on the sleeves, pockets at the back, all bulging with contents that were unclear.

  And her feet were bare.

  No shoes. No sandals. Her soles directly touching the dirty asphalt, the black puddles, the scattered garbage. She didn't care. Her eyes were closed, her nose moving, like a rabbit smelling the scent of a carrot from a distance.

  Ethan was about to step past her. Not his business. The Grime was full of strange people, beggars, addicts, runaways. No need to care.

  But the girl opened her eyes.

  And looked directly toward him.

  Her eyes, green, too green for an ordinary human or elf, went wide. Her nose moved faster, sniffing like a hunting dog that had lost a trail for weeks and had just found it again. Her small body straightened on top of the pile of cardboard, the brown robe full of pockets fluttering gently in the night wind that carried the smell of garbage and dungeon vapor. Her lips opened, and for a moment Ethan thought the girl was going to scream.

  But what came out was a whisper full of astonishment that was actually more unsettling than a scream.

  "You... you don't smell!"

  Ethan stopped mid-step. His feet, which a moment ago had been ready to step past this strange girl, were now rooted on the wet asphalt.

  The neon light at the end of the alley flickered once, off, on, and in that half second of darkness, he could feel the girl's gaze piercing the shadows. When the light returned, the girl was already standing.

  She leaped from the pile of cardboard with an energy that didn't match her worn appearance. Her bare feet landed on the wet asphalt without sound, which was strange, because there should have been a thud or at least the splash of water from the black puddles around her. But no. She moved like a falling leaf, without weight, without sound, as though her feet never touched the ground.

  Approaching. Too fast. Too close.

  Ethan stepped back one step, but the girl was already standing right before him, only half a meter away, an uncomfortable distance for a first conversation between two strangers in a squalid alley at midnight. Her eyes, wide, sparkling behind the round glasses too large for her small face, looked at him with an intensity that made the hair on the back of Ethan's neck stand. Not from fear, but from the strange sensation of being examined under a microscope.

  Her nose, too prominent for an ordinary human, but half-elves did have features like that, moved. Sniffing the air around Ethan's neck. Sniffing his chest. Sniffing his arm. Like a tracking dog that had lost a trail for years and had just found it again.

  "This is insane," the girl whispered, more to herself than to Ethan. Her voice trembled between amazement and disbelief. "Completely nothing. Zero. Empty. Like... like a vacuum." She raised her face, looking at Ethan with an expression that was a mixture of pure delight and total confusion. "You know, for two years I've been wandering The Grime, smelling thousands of people, adventurers, cleaners, thugs, traders, even corpses in the drainage ditches, and they all smell. Smell of mana. Smell of death. Smell of fear. Smell of ambition. Smell of desperation. Everyone has a distinctive aroma, like an invisible fingerprint. But you..."

  She drew a long breath, closing her eyes, like a wine connoisseur inhaling the aroma of the finest vintage in a dark basement.

  "You're clean."

  Ethan stared at her.

  This girl was crazy. Definitely crazy. There was no way a sane person would roam The Grime at this hour without footwear, in a robe full of pockets with unknown contents, and suddenly approach a stranger to discuss the topic of smell. But in his chest, [Danger Sense] was silent. No warning. No pulse of alertness. Only the presence of this girl, strange, eccentric, unpredictable, who precisely triggered no danger response whatsoever.

  Or perhaps too crazy to be a threat.

  "Who are you?" he asked finally, his voice flat as usual, the same voice he used when reporting the number of corpses on the third floor, when bargaining over the price of soap at the corner stall, when saying "get out of the way" to three armed thugs a few hours ago.

  The girl opened her eyes, then smiled broadly, a bright smile that was completely mismatched with the worn robe, disheveled silver hair, and dirty bare feet. That smile was like sunlight in the middle of a storm, strange but striking, too sincere for this world full of falseness.

  "Aria. Aria Valehart." She extended her hand, a small hand with neglected nails, the spaces between her fingers still bearing traces of blue ink or perhaps black soil from the dungeon. "I'm a researcher. An illegal researcher, to be precise. But don't worry, I'm not dangerous! Maybe a little crazy, okay, maybe more than a little, but not dangerous. At least not intentionally. I mean, I won't hurt you intentionally. Unless forced, but that rarely happens, and usually only in self-defense, and..."

  She stopped, realizing she had begun to ramble. An awkward laugh leaped from her lips. "Sorry. I talk too fast when I'm nervous. Or when I'm happy. Or when I meet something interesting. And you..." she pointed at Ethan's nose again, "...are very, very interesting."

  Ethan didn't take her hand.

  Aria didn't care. Her hand was pulled back gracefully, then busily rummaged through one of the pockets in her robe. The pocket at the stomach, the largest, almost the size of a baby's head, emitted a sound of clinking metal and paper as her hand went inside. She pulled out several objects: a worn pen with a dry ink tip, a small bottle containing blue liquid that moved on its own inside it, a worn piece of paper covered in complex scrawlings, then put them back in carefully. The next pocket, on the right sleeve, contained a thin notebook that almost fell before she managed to stop it. The third pocket, at the back and the largest, emitted a strange smell, like a mixture of exotic spices and chemicals that should not have been mixed.

  "Aha!" Aria finally found what she was looking for. From the pocket at the waist, the smallest, almost invisible because it was hidden behind the folds of the robe, she pulled out a scrap of grimy paper, already yellowing at the edges, almost torn on several sides, with handwriting that was nearly illegible. She presented it to Ethan with pride, like a knight presenting a medal of honor.

  "This is my name card. Yes, I know this is used bread wrapper paper, but good paper is expensive and I need money for research so..." she laughed awkwardly again, scratching her dirty cheek with a finger still smeared with ink. "...well, this is what I have. But the information is complete! Just read it. I made sure the writing is legible. Maybe."

  Ethan stared at the paper. On it, in blue ink already faded in several places from being exposed to water or sweat, was written:

  ARIA VALEHART

  Independent Researcher (Specialization: Mana Olfaction)

  Address: Underground Headquarters (Ask the kids in Middle Alley, they know)

  Note: Bring snacks if you want to visit. I like snacks. Salty snacks, not sweet.

  Below it, there was an additional scrawling in different ink, red and more recent: "Sweet is fine too, but salty is better. But if you bring both, I will be very happy. Maybe we can be friends."

  Ethan raised an eyebrow. "This is... a name card?"

  "Official!" Aria nodded enthusiastically, her disheveled silver hair swaying along with it. "I made it myself. One hundred sheets. Thirty have already been given out to interesting people, but this is the first time anyone has actually responded." She looked at Ethan with anxious hopefulness, her eyes sparkling behind the clouded glasses. "You will respond, won't you? I mean, you're still here, didn't run away, didn't call the guards, didn't hit me... that's a good sign, right?"

  Ethan looked at her for a long time. This girl, Aria, maybe sixteen, maybe nineteen, and it was hard to guess the age of a half-elf. Her face was young, fresh despite being dirty, but her eyes showed an unusual tiredness, thin dark circles beneath the eyes, a gaze too sharp for her age. Her silver hair disheveled, her glasses clouded full of fingerprints, her robe full of patches from different cloths. But there was something in her eyes, a fire, a curiosity that never died out, an obsession burning even as the world considered her crazy.

  "What is Mana Olfaction?" asked Ethan, more to redirect the conversation than because he genuinely wanted to know. Also because, deep inside, he was indeed curious. What did this girl know about "smell" that might be related to his Stench?

  Aria's eyes sparkled. No small amount. That sparkle could have illuminated all of The Grime.

  "Oh! You're asking! Good! Very good!" She made a small jump, both her bare feet striking the asphalt with a thud this time, as though her excitement made her forget to move without sound. "This is a good sign! A person who asks has curiosity! And curiosity is the beginning of all great discoveries!"?