Next stage

Fin leaned against the wall by the east door, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. The Hunter Guild lobby still hummed around him—people coming and going, their voices a low buzz that made his head spin. 

He could still feel the weight of everyone's stares, the whispers about the "slum freak" who'd knocked out Scarface with a single touch. His patched jeans and faded shirt felt like a neon sign screaming "I don't belong her." But he was in. Barely, sure, but in.

He shifted his weight, wincing as his boots squeaked on the shiny floor. His legs ached from the ten-mile walk, and his arm still stung under the bandages from that monster fight. 'Man, I need a nap,' he thought, rubbing his eyes. '"Or a sandwich. Or both.' His stomach growled, loud enough that a guy nearby—a slick-looking dude with a sword slung over his back—shot him a weird look.

"Uh, sorry," Fin muttered, turning red. Sword Guy just smirked and walked off, leaving Fin to slump back against the wall. 'Great. Even my stomach's embarrassing me now.'

He glanced around, trying to distract himself. The lobby was huge—way bigger than it looked from outside. Fancy lights hung from the ceiling, glowing soft and warm, not like the flickering bulb back home. 

The walls had posters of Hunters—big, bold pictures of them posing with weapons or standing over dead monsters. One showed a lady with a giant hammer, grinning like she'd just smashed a whole dungeon to bits. 'She's cool,' he thought. 'Bet she doesn't trip over her own feet.'

The east door was plain, just a slab of metal with a little sign that said "Orientation – New Recruits." No one else was waiting there yet, which made him antsy. 'Am I early? Late? Do they even want me here?' That interviewer lady had passed him, yeah, but her sigh and that "walking disaster" comment stuck with him. What if this was all a mistake?

He kicked at the floor, scuffing his boot. 'Meg'd tell me to chill. 'You're in, dummy! Stop whining!' He could almost hear her voice, loud and sharp, cutting through his nerves. It made him smile a little. 'Yeah, okay. I'm here. That's what counts.'

A clatter of footsteps snapped him out of it. A group of people—five or six, all around his age—headed his way, laughing and talking loud. They looked… well, not like him.

Clean clothes, shiny gear, hair that didn't look like it'd been hacked with a dull knife. One girl had a bow strapped to her back, and a guy flexed his arms like he was showing off invisible muscles. 'Applicants,' Fin guessed. 'Great. More people to laugh at me.'

They stopped a few feet away, clustering by the door. The bow girl glanced at him, her eyes flicking over his patched-up outfit, but she didn't say anything. Muscle Guy, though, nudged his buddy—a short dude with spiky red hair—and grinned.

"Yo, check it," Muscle Guy said, not even trying to whisper. "They're letting anyone in now, huh?"

Red Hair snickered. "What's he gonna do, fight monsters with that shirt? Smell them to death?"

Fin's ears burned, but he kept his mouth shut, staring at the floor. 'Ignore them. Just wait for the door. You've dealt with worse.' Still, his fists clenched in his pockets. He wasn't here to prove anything to these jerks—he was here for Meg, for the slums, for himself. 

But man, it'd feel good to punch that grin off Muscle Guy's face.

The group kept chatting, ignoring him now, which was fine by him. He tuned them out, focusing on the door. 'Orientation. That's, like, a welcome thing, right? Tell me what to do, where to go?' He had no clue how this Hunter stuff worked. Rankings, duties, all that jazz the interviewer lady mentioned—he was flying blind. 'Hope they don't test me on day one. I'd fail so fast.'

Minutes dragged by, slow and heavy. More people trickled over—some cocky, some nervous, all better dressed than him. The lobby noise faded to a dull roar in his head. He was starting to doze off, his head dipping, when the east door finally swung open with a loud clank.

A guy stepped out—tall, broad-shouldered, with a shaved head and a scar running down his neck like someone tried to slice him open and gave up halfway. He wore a dark green jacket with the Hunter Guild logo—a crossed sword and shield—stitched on the chest. His eyes scanned the group, hard and sharp, like he was sizing them up for a fight.

"New recruits," he barked, voice rough like gravel. "Line up. Orientation's starting. Move it!"

The group scrambled into a messy line, shoving and nudging each other. Fin hung back, slipping to the end, his heart kicking up a notch. 'This is it. No turning back.' He shuffled into place, standing behind Bow Girl, who gave him a quick nod—nice, not rude. Muscle Guy and Red Hair were up front, still smirking like they owned the place.

"I'm Instructor Vance. You're here because you passed screening. Congrats, you're not total trash. Yet." He paced, boots thudding. "But don't get comfy. Half of you won't last a week. The other half? Might die on your first job. Welcome to the Hunter Guild."

Fin swallowed hard. 'Die? He's joking, right?' But Vance's face said he wasn't. The guy's scar gleamed under the lights, and Fin wondered what kind of monster—or person—gave it to him.

"Follow me," Vance said, turning back to the door. "Keep up, or get left behind."

The group filed in, Fin trailing at the back. The hallway was narrow, all concrete and steel, nothing fancy like the lobby. It smelled faintly of sweat and metal, like a gym mixed with a scrap yard. 

His boots echoed as he walked, each step heavier than the last. 'What'd I sign up for?' he thought, but he kept moving. 

They stepped into a big room—more like a warehouse than anything else. Metal walls, high ceiling, and rows of benches facing a platform up front. A few tables along the sides had gear laid out—swords, shields, weird glowing rocks Fin couldn't name. His eyes widened. 'Whoa. That's Hunter stuff. Real Hunter stuff.'

"Sit," Vance ordered, pointing to the benches. The group scrambled again, and Fin grabbed a spot near the back, alone. Muscle Guy and Red Hair plopped down up front, already whispering and laughing. Bow Girl sat a few rows ahead, fiddling with her bowstring like she was bored.

Vance stepped onto the platform, hands behind his back. "Orientation, day one. You're F-rank—bottom of the barrel. That means you're weak, green, and probably dumb. My job? Make you less of all three. If you're lucky."

Fin sank lower in his seat. 'Great pep talk, man.'

"First rule," Vance went on, holding up a finger. "Don't die. Sounds easy, right? It's not. Monsters don't care about your dreams or your mommy's tears. They'll rip you apart and eat the pieces. So listen, learn, and maybe you'll climb to E-rank before you're a corpse."

Red Hair raised a hand, grinning. "Hey, Instructor! What's the pay like? Gotta know if this gig's worth it."

Vance glared at him, and Red Hair's grin faltered. "You'll get paid, kid. F-rank jobs are trash—cleaning up monster guts, hauling supplies, scouting safe zones. Pennies compared to the big leagues. Want to eat steak? Don't suck."

The group chuckled, but Fin didn't. 'Pennies are still more than scrap money,' he thought. 'I can work with that.'

"Second rule," he said, pacing again. "Powers. You've all got one, or you wouldn't be here. Some of you might think you're hot stuff." His eyes flicked to Muscle Guy, who puffed out his chest. "You're not. F-rank powers are weak sauce—barely Awakened. Train them, control them, or they'll get you killed."

Fin's stomach twisted. His power—Absorption—wasn't weak anymore, not after the monster… and Scarface. But he didn't know how it worked. What if he touched someone again and they didn't just pass out? What if—

"Oi, slum boy!" Red Hair twisted around, smirking at Fin. "What's your power? Tripping over trash?"

The group snickered, and Fin's face heated up. "Uh… it's Absorption," he mumbled, loud enough for them to hear.

Muscle Guy laughed. "What, you hug stuff to death? Lame!"

Vance shot them a look that shut them up fast. "Pipe down. Doesn't matter what it is—only matters what you do with it." He turned back to Fin, eyes narrowing. "Absorption, huh? Weird one. Don't touch me unless you wanna lose a hand."

Fin nodded quick. 'Noted. No touching the scary scar guy.'

Vance clapped his hands, the sound bouncing off the walls. "Enough talk. Gear up—basic kit's on the tables. Then we test you. Move!"

The group jumped up, rushing the tables. Fin hung back, watching them grab knives, vests, weird gadgets he didn't understand. 

'Test? Already?' His heart raced, but he took a deep breath. 'You've got this. Don't punk out now.'

He stepped forward, ready—or not—for whatever came next.