Externally Hired Personnel!

When Ivan first heard the sheriff's proposal, his immediate reaction was confusion. What could they possibly need him for? The second feeling that crept in was disbelief, bordering on irritation. Was he, Ivan, supposed to play detective and help capture some slippery, elusive thief named Martha? It was absurd! He wasn't Sherlock Holmes. "Why me?" he thought, feeling the indignation simmer. "Go hire a real detective if you're so desperate to catch this kangaroo bandit! I don't even have a job yet!"

Sheriff Snowden, catching the flicker of disdain on Ivan's face, simply chuckled. He raised his hand in a calming gesture, the hint of a sly smile playing at his lips. "Oh, don't worry, Mr. Ivan," he said smoothly. "We're not expecting you to work for free. After all, a well-fed mule pulls the cart better, doesn't it? Here at the North Beach Police Department, we believe in rewarding those who help us get things done."

Snowden leaned in, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "In fact, the state senator himself has authorized a reward: 1,000 dollars for anyone who helps bring the kangaroo thief, Martha, to justice."

Ivan's eyes widened. "How much?" he blurted out, hardly able to believe his ears. One thousand dollars was a fortune! With just 2,000, a laborer could lift himself from the depths of poverty into the lower middle class. And now, the police wanted to offer him half of that for one job? The allure of the money washed over his indignation in an instant.

His demeanor transformed. He straightened up, clasping his hands in front of him with a sudden air of solemnity. "Sheriff Snowden," he declared with exaggerated dignity, "the good people of California have suffered from the notorious kangaroo bandit for far too long! It would be my honor to lend my sword to protect them."

Snowden smiled, evidently pleased with Ivan's change of heart. "I couldn't ask for a better ally, Mr. Ivan! A man of your talents and insight is exactly what we need. In two short minutes, you'll achieve what others in my department couldn't in two long years!"

He signaled to a nearby officer. "Bjornsen, bring him some coffee! From today onward, Mr. Ivan is an official external contractor for the North Beach Police Department!"

The two men rose, shaking hands with a mutual admiration that glittered in their eyes, a moment that had all the markings of a budding alliance. Behind them, two junior officers broke into applause, celebrating their new recruit.

But as Ivan sat back down, a nagging thought surfaced. "But Why me?" he asked, a touch of confusion returning to his voice. "I'm just an ordinary citizen. Surely there are others better suited for this kind of work?"

Snowden leaned back, exhaling as he lit a fresh cigarette. He tapped the ash thoughtfully, studying Ivan. "Two reasons," he began. "First, you've already had contact with the kangaroo thief. She might let her guard down around you, making it easier for you to get close."

Ivan nodded slowly, starting to follow the logic, as Snowden continued, "Second, we initially suspected that Martha was an entertainer; maybe a performer or a street artist. But your account gave me a new perspective."

He leaned in, voice low but intense. "We're talking about a criminal who managed to steal 120,000 dollars. But so far, she hasn't drawn any attention. Not a single suspicious transaction, no luxurious spending. Bigg went through every transaction of actors, makeup artists, and performers in the city, and came up empty-handed. Unless this thief is simply sitting on her money, that leaves one other possibility…"

Ivan raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What possibility?"

Snowden's gaze hardened. "She's not spending the money because it's not hers to spend. This girl, Martha, she's a runaway, maybe a stowaway, possibly even under someone else's thumb. She's young, vulnerable, and could easily be manipulated by a gang or a drug ring. They're using her for their own dirty work, and that's why she's so skilled. The level of discipline and anti-surveillance tactics she shows… that doesn't come naturally. It's training."

Ivan let out a low whistle, genuinely impressed. "Sheriff, I never thought a man like you had such a sharp mind."

Snowden smirked, looking pleased. "Based on this theory, I've managed to narrow down her possible hideouts. There's a place… difficult for us to infiltrate, but someone with your background would blend in perfectly."

Ivan narrowed his eyes. "And where might that be?"

"Oakland," Snowden replied, gesturing across the bay. "Over the BA Bay Bridge. It's a melting pot of mixed-race communities, immigrants from Asian, Eurasia, Slavic and people living off the radar. If our kangaroo thief is hiding anywhere, it's there."

…

By 11 a.m., Ivan found himself signing an unexpected contract. He was now a "temporary external consultant" for the San Francisco North Beach Police Department. The terms were sparse, to say the least. No base salary, a promised bonus of 1,000 dollars, and no benefits; no insurance, no pension, no housing support, and not even a meal stipend. However, they did offer to cover the cost of repairing his broken door lock, which was better than nothing.

"Some job," he muttered to himself as he shrugged back into his thin white shirt, still the only clothing he had for the crisp autumn morning. The wind cut through him, and he shivered, pulling his collar up.

His task was simple enough on paper: infiltrate Oakland, sniff around for any signs of Martha, and pinpoint her location. The rest would be handled by the police. But deep down, Ivan felt a prickle of doubt. This wouldn't be as straightforward as Snowden made it seem. He could sense layers of danger lurking beneath the sheriff's confident words.

As he set off, he glanced back at the police station, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Guess I've got myself a job now," he mused, though he knew this mission was bound to be anything but ordinary.

Oakland couldn't be more different from San Francisco. While San Francisco sparkled with its towering buildings and bustling business districts, Oakland, just across the bridge, felt like a forgotten underbelly; a place where opportunity and despair mingled in dimly lit alleyways. Poverty clung to the streets like a fog, and its unique position made it an ideal stronghold for those who thrived in the shadows. Gangs, drug lords, and black-market networks had claimed Oakland as their own, weaving an intricate web of influence and intimidation across the city.

If Marda was indeed tied to one of Oakland's gangs, especially as some kind of "special asset" they had cultivated, Ivan had a lot to be wary of. The stakes were high, and in a place like Oakland, where street smarts weren't enough to keep you safe, he knew there might be more to this than simple street crime. In his world, the possibility of wizards; a rare but dangerous addition to the criminal underworld, was never far from his mind. Oakland was exactly the kind of place where darker powers could be hiding in plain sight.

"Going in unprepared would be foolish," he muttered to himself, already forming a mental checklist. Memories of his last run-in with Bruno, a mid-tier gangster from the Bridgewick gang, still haunted him. That encounter had nearly left him cornered, and Bruno was small-time compared to the players in Oakland. He knew that facing a gang head-on, especially one wielding occult forces, would mean a whole new level of risk.

Thankfully, his now-thicker wallet gave him some confidence. With that reward money burning a hole in his pocket, Ivan decided to invest in supplies: specifically, alchemical ingredients that could give him an edge. "Better spend some cash now than regret it later," he thought, feeling a rare sense of satisfaction at the freedom to stock up.

…

Ivan's alchemical skills had a peculiar limitation, one that frustrated him to no end. His system only allowed him to learn new formulas by, well, killing other wizards. This created a maddening catch-22. To gain stronger alchemical recipes, he'd have to defeat wizards more powerful than himself. But to take down these stronger wizards, he needed better potions and tools. It was an infuriating loop.

He'd tried other methods, mass-producing "paralysis potions" in the hopes of overwhelming his targets with sheer quantity. The plan was to turn himself into a walking arsenal, like a one-man battalion of poison vials. But his system had another infuriating quirk: the potions he crafted deteriorated quickly, often losing their potency within an hour. A fresh bottle of paralysis potion might last just long enough for a single fight, if he was lucky. Other potions held up a little better, but none had any real shelf life.

So, Ivan had resigned himself to stockpiling raw materials instead, hoping to craft on the go if needed. By the time he left Kgro's department store, his dimensional storage was practically bursting:

[Storage Inventory: Old wallet, whiskey x50, tobacco x50, lead-acid battery x10, mercury x10, salt x20, sulfur x20, calcium tablets x20, whisperer bone cones x2, exorcism spray x1, Webley revolver x1]

[Current space usage: 10/11]

Ivan glanced at his inventory with a rare feeling of satisfaction. "Alright," he muttered with a grin, "now I won't have to worry about being outgunned." For the first time in a while, he felt genuinely prepared.

But that feeling was short-lived. When he checked his wallet, his heart sank. The stack of cash had thinned considerably, leaving him with only 1,703 dollars. He'd blown through 300 dollars in one shopping spree, and the realization hit him hard. "I swear, this ability of mine is a bottomless money pit," he sighed, shaking his head.

Others with "awakened" abilities often got inherent advantages; flight, bulletproof skin, super strength. But not him. For every tool, every trick he could pull, he needed materials, time, and, most of all, money. If he wanted to make more advanced tools in the future, his expenses would only grow. He'd need a steady income to keep up with the demands of his system.

As he walked down Lombard Street, deep in thought, the soft strains of a street band playing the blues drifted over. The music felt like an echo of his own mood, tinged with melancholy and resolve. Sunlight filtered down in thin, feathered streaks, casting the street in a golden glow. It was peaceful, almost surreal, and it brought him back to his system and the road ahead.

The most thrilling aspect of his alchemical system was the evolution it underwent after major upgrades. With each rating boost, the system unlocked new functions, each one offering a tantalizing glimpse of greater power. The storage function, unlocked when he upgraded from E to D, had been a game-changer, giving him a hidden pocket to carry his supplies. It was more than just practical, it was a tactical advantage, a way to mislead enemies by making him appear unarmed, only to pull out whatever he needed in the heat of battle.

Right now, he was rated at 2D. He needed two more significant upgrades to reach the next level. The prospect of unlocking new powers thrilled him, but it came at a cost, a dark one. To advance, he would need to kill two more wizards, something that weighed heavily on his conscience. Ivan could still remember the cold, hollow feeling after his first kill. The memory haunted him, and he'd never fully come to terms with it.

His thoughts drifted to Marda. She had been around eighteen when she committed her first crime, two years ago. If she was a wizard, that meant she had likely begun honing her skills even earlier; maybe at sixteen or younger. Her abilities were sharp, possibly as a result of relentless training, and Ivan suspected her entry into this world hadn't been by choice. She was likely thrown into a brutal world at a young age, learning to survive in the only way she could.

He stopped, staring off into the distance. "Sixteen…" he murmured. "That's when she might have started all this. That's when she stepped into the forest."

The metaphor wasn't lost on him. To enter the "forest" was to step into the world of magic, crime, and darkness, a place where innocence couldn't survive. As he considered her path, he felt an unexpected pang of empathy. They were on opposite sides now, but in some ways, they were walking the same road. Both were trapped in cycles of power and survival, seeking strength but paying for it with pieces of their humanity.

With a deep breath, he tightened his grip on his supplies and continued down the street, leaving behind the mournful blues of the band. He had a mission to complete, and whether he was ready or not, Oakland awaited. The shadows of the city were calling, and he had no choice but to answer.