Dawn came with a headache and a cash box full of silver. I'd slept like shit — too much adrenaline, too many worries — and the new mattress, perfect as it was, hadn't helped one bit. But I was at the counter by sunrise, kneading dough, when the door swung open.
The man calling himself Varn had the kind of smile that made you count your fingers after a handshake.
He sat across from me at my best table — a sturdy oak affair, checkered cloth, the kind of table that would've cost me a month's rent back on Earth — and laid out a scroll covered in seals. Merchant's Guild crest. Official stamp. The whole bureaucratic circus.
"Ten percent of gross," he said. "Plus four pizzas weekly, delivered to the guildhall by midday. In return, you get protection."
"Protection from what exactly?"
He spread his hands. "Dalton has its dangers. Unaffiliated businesses sometimes suffer accidents. Misfortunes."
Al stood by the counter, polishing a glass with more attention than it deserved. His eyebrow twitched a fraction of an inch.
"That sounds like a threat," I said.
"That sounds like business." Varn's smile didn't move. It was painted on. Permanent.
Al sighed.
I counted to five. Ten percent was reasonable. The four pizzas were annoying but workable. And I didn't know enough about this city's power structure to start a war on day one.
"Fine."
Varn produced a contract from his sleeve. I read it twice. The fine print was fine. No hidden clauses. Just a shakedown with paperwork.
Signatures. Seals. Done.
He left with a bow that was one degree too shallow.
I closed the door behind him and stood there for a long moment. The pizzeria smelled like oregano and woodsmoke. My hands were shaking slightly.
"Master?" Al's voice was careful. Quiet.
"I'm fine."
I wasn't. My heart was doing that thing where it beats too fast and too slow at the same time. I'd signed away a piece of my business to a man who smiled like a shark. That was fine. That was normal. Every restaurant deal on old Earth had a Varn or two in it somewhere as well.
I turned to head back to the kitchen, and my boot crunched against something on the floor. A piece of parchment, folded once, sits in the gap beneath the door.
Not there when Varn arrived. Must have been slipped through while we talked. While I was distracted by protection rackets and guild seals.
I picked it up. Unfolded it.
Three words in black ink. No signature. No flourish.
*We know who you are.*
I stared at it for a long time. The letters were even. Deliberate. Someone with good penmanship and bad intentions.
---
I burned it in the oven fire. Watched the edges curl and blacken until it was ash.
Then I stood there a little longer than necessary, watching the smoke curl up the flue.
"Master."
"Yeah."
"There is a woman in the corner booth. She has been watching you for some time."
I turned slowly.
She was grey from head to toe. Grey cloak, grey hood, grey eyes that caught the light like river stones. A single cup of water sat in front of her, untouched as far as I could tell.
She smiled.
Not a friendly smile. Not an unfriendly one either. It was the smile of someone who knew something you didn't, and was in no hurry to share.
I walked over. "Can I help you?"
"I'm fine." Her voice was low and rough. Like she'd been swallowing gravel for breakfast.
"You've been sitting there for two hours with a cup of water."
"I'm fine."
I waited. She didn't elaborate. Just sat there, motionless, that smile fixed in place.
"The note," I said. "Did you—"
"Don't burn things in the oven," she said quietly. "Smoke draws attention. Also ruins the brick. Use a brazier next time."
Then she stood, dropped a copper on the table, and walked out without another word. The door swung shut behind her. The bell jingled.
I stared at the door for a full thirty seconds after she left. Then I looked at the oven. Then back at the door. I hadn't said anything about the note to her. She just knew.
"Fucking hell," I muttered.
---
The afternoon brought more customers. A trickle at first, then a steady stream. Word was spreading. The mushroom-and-cheese pizza was selling itself.
But I noticed things.
The two rough-looking men loitering across the street. One had a scar across his nose. The other kept looking at the pizzeria and writing in a small book. A leather-bound one. The kind you'd use for reports.
"Al."
"I see them, Master."
"Any idea who they work for?"
Al was quiet for a moment. "The fishmonger mentioned that strangers had been asking questions. About the new owner of the old Rusty Tankard. Your description, more or less. Tall. Cooks strange food."
"Strangers with scars and notebooks?"
"Presumably."
Big brother dearest. It had to be. My brother's reach was longer than I'd hoped. His network wider. He wasn't just looking for me in Bolexe anymore — he was casting a net across the whole region.
I went back to kneading dough. Punching it harder than necessary. The dough didn't complain. It never did.
---
The evening crowd thinned around dusk. The last customer left, full and happy. I was scrubbing the counter when I felt it.
A tingle.
Right at the base of my skull. Like static electricity building behind my eyes.
The air in front of me shimmered. Blue text appeared, floating, crisp. Like a notification from God.
**[SYSTEM LOADING… NEW MODULE DETECTED]**
**[MERCHANT'S GUILD AFFILIATION REGISTERED]**
**[UNLOCKING: REPUTATION TRACKER]**
**[UNLOCKING: REGIONAL INGREDIENT DATABASE]**
**[NEW ITEMS AVAILABLE FOR PURCHASE]**
I blinked.
The text hung there for three seconds, then faded.
"Master?" Al was looking at me oddly.
"Did you see that?"
"See what?"
Right. He couldn't.
I wiped my hands on my apron and grinned despite myself.
"Nothing, Al. Just the system warming up."
The night was young. And apparently, so was my pizzeria's career.