Shadows of Obligation

Nova lifted his shaking hand. The stolen pouch dangled from his fingers.

The gang leader grinned. "Not bad, street rat."

Nova didn't feel like he'd won.

The warehouse was cold, the air thick with the scent of oil and damp concrete. Metal crates lined the walls, stacked haphazardly like forgotten pieces of another life. A life Nova didn't belong to. The gang members lounging in the shadows—men who had survived the streets far longer than he had—watched him with quiet amusement, as if waiting for him to fail.

Reeve stepped forward and plucked the pouch from Nova's grasp. His fingers, rough with scars, made the exchange feel like a lesson in power. This wasn't just about stealing. This was about control.

Reeve weighed the pouch in his palm, then flicked it open. A handful of silver coins spilled into his gloved hand. They glinted under the weak light, reflecting a reality Nova couldn't escape—he was nothing but a tool to Reeve, just another pair of quick hands in the machine of the streets.

"Fast," Reeve murmured, slipping the coins into his coat. "Sloppy, but fast." His sharp eyes settled on Nova, studying him the way a butcher might inspect a piece of meat before the cut. "That's good. You're gonna need it."

Nova's breath hitched. Here it comes. The next job. The next test. The next impossible task.

Reeve reached into his coat and pulled out a small metallic cube, no bigger than Nova's palm. It was smooth, cold, and heavier than it looked. Not money. Not drugs. Something different.

Nova had learned to spot the difference.

"This ain't just a delivery, street rat." Reeve tossed the cube once in the air before catching it with a smirk. "You take this to an old man near the docks. Black coat, cane, talks too much. You'll know him when you see him."

Nova reached for the cube, but Reeve didn't let go right away. His grip was firm, his eyes steady.

"But here's the fun part." Reeve leaned in slightly, voice lowering. "You watch. You listen. You tell me exactly what you see. Every detail."

Nova swallowed. His instincts screamed at him—this wasn't just another errand.

"Why?" The word slipped out before he could stop it.

The room fell silent.

A few gang members exchanged amused glances. Some sneered, like they were waiting for Nova to get punished for speaking out of turn.

Reeve, however, just tilted his head. His smirk didn't falter, but something in his gaze sharpened. "Why?" he repeated, as if tasting the question. He released the cube into Nova's hand and straightened. "Because I said so."

Nova stiffened, his fingers curling around the object. It was smooth and warm now from his touch, but somehow it felt… wrong.

Reeve clapped a hand on his shoulder, the weight almost making Nova stumble. "Don't mess this up." His voice was light, almost amused. But Nova knew better than to believe there was kindness in it.

The gang leader turned away, already losing interest. "Now get outta here."

Nova didn't hesitate.

He turned and walked, forcing his legs to move steadily even though his heart pounded against his ribs. One wrong move, one sign of weakness, and he knew Reeve would see it.

The moment he stepped out of the warehouse, the cold night air hit him like a slap. The city was alive with distant voices, the rumble of engines, the flicker of neon signs reflecting off wet pavement. Nova sucked in a breath.

He was alone again.

But the weight in his hand told him otherwise.

---

The Docks

Nova's footsteps were soft against the wooden planks of the dock. The salty air mixed with the rot of fish and rusting metal. The docks were dangerous at night—not just because of thieves, but because of the things that lurked where no one was looking.

His fingers brushed the cube in his pocket. He still didn't know what was inside it, but something about the way Reeve had spoken, the way the gang members had watched—it wasn't normal.

Then he saw the man.

Black coat. Cane. Standing beneath a flickering streetlamp, staring out at the dark water.

Nova hesitated. Something wasn't right.

Most people on the streets had a certain look—either desperate or dangerous. This man looked neither. His posture was straight, his hands steady. Waiting. Expecting.

Nova stepped closer. "You the guy?"

The man turned slowly, his expression unreadable. His gaze flickered to Nova's pocket. "You have it?"

Nova nodded and pulled out the cube. The man reached for it, but before Nova could hand it over, a sound split the silence—a sharp, metallic click.

A gun.

Nova tensed, his stomach twisting.

From the shadows, another figure emerged. Hooded. Holding a pistol aimed directly at the old man.

"You're not supposed to be here," the hooded figure muttered. His voice was low, rough, like he hadn't spoken in days.

The old man exhaled, slow and measured. "And yet, here I am."

Nova barely breathed. What the hell was happening?

The hooded figure took a step forward, gun steady. Nova's grip tightened around the cube. His mind raced. Should he run? Fight? Was this part of Reeve's test? Or was he in way deeper than he realized?

The old man met Nova's eyes. "You should go, boy."

But Nova couldn't move.

The gunman's finger twitched on the trigger.

And then—

A deafening crack shattered the night.

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