Kyro did mind. In fact, he minded very much.
He didn't know this person. Logically speaking, there was absolutely zero reason for him to agree to go anywhere or do anything with him. Technically, it was well within his rights to tell this Dalken—or whatever the hell his name was—to screw off, the same way he would any other nosy stranger sticking their nose where it didn't belong.
But, of course, Kyro didn't.
Because, unlike recent events might suggest, he wasn't suicidal. Far from it. Wary as he was, he was also astute enough to distinguish between real questions and questions merely framed as such to give the illusion of choice.
The truth was simple: he didn't actually have an option.
And so, "Sure, why not?" Kyro agreed, with all the enthusiasm of a man cornered and the practised compliance of the powerless.
Less than five minutes later, he found himself standing just outside an eatery so obscenely upscale its exterior alone probably cost more than everything Samm owned combined, and then some.
The place was called Velarium, its name etched in stylish golden lettering above a wide glass frontage that revealed plush seating, polished marble floors, and a clientele dressed in understated opulence.
"After you," Dalken said, gesturing toward the entrance.
Kyro hesitated, partly to gauge the Ascendant's intentions before it was too late, partly because he was painfully aware of how he looked. Thigh-high boots, scuffed and caked with grime; a worn, threadbare jacket; plain shirt and trousers chosen for function, not presentation. In short, he felt like an oil stain threatening a pristine silk tablecloth.
He wasn't alone in that assessment.
"Welcome to Velar—" The greeting rolled off the pretty hostess's tongue out of habit, then stalled when she took in who had entered. A faint crease appeared between her brows as her gaze swept over Kyro in a single, efficient pass. Not openly hostile, just sharp. Measuring. The sort of look that asked who let you in here? without bothering to use words.
Before she could speak, Dalken stepped forward.
"He's with me."
That was all. No raised voice. No badge flashed. No threat implied.
Yet the effect was immediate.
The hostess straightened, her expression flipping from guarded scepticism to professional warmth. Whatever question she'd been about to ask vanished behind a perfectly rehearsed smile.
"Of course, sir," she said, already turning. "Right this way."
Kyro followed, stunned. Was this how real authority worked? No shouting. No intimidation. Just presence, and compliance.
How convenient.
They were led past softly murmuring diners and tables set with glassware so thin it looked ceremonial. Affluent patrons laughed beneath iridescent lighting, clinking glasses over plates of artfully arranged exotic food. Kyro couldn't help noticing how conversations dipped as they—or rather, he—passed, judgemental glances following him like ripples across stagnant water.
Honestly, he didn't blame them.
While most of the people here weren't Ascendants, they were wealthier, safer, and far more comfortable than anyone in the slums. Uptown normies—as Kyro privately labelled them—weren't anywhere near the top of the food chain, but they were well-fed and insulated enough to look down on anyone lower.
At last, they reached a secluded booth near the far wall, partially screened by decorative panels and dense hanging greenery. The moment they sat, the ambient noise dulled, as though the space itself respected privacy.
A server appeared almost instantly, napkin-wrapped arm across her stomach, menu tablets in hand.
"Order anything you like," Dalken said casually, leaning back. "It's on me."
Kyro blinked. "That's… generous. But I'm good."
The server hesitated, eyes flicking between them.
"Please," Dalken said mildly. "I insist."
Kyro relented. He glanced down at the menu as it was placed before him. Rows of unfamiliar names scrolled past, each more extravagant than the last. Half of them didn't even sound edible.
What even was "Aurelian Mist Carpaccio?"
Or "Luminous Carp Shell Tartare?"
He swallowed.
"I'll just have a glass of water."
Dalken raised an eyebrow, amused. Kyro pretended not to notice.
"Regular or conjured?" the server asked.
Conjured, as in Ascendant-made. That alone made it a once-in-a-lifetime delicacy. "Conjured," Kyro said.
"Still or sparkling?"
Kyro paused, then shrugged inwardly. "Sparkling." At that point, he was making decisions purely on momentum.
Once the server left, an uncomfortable silence settled between them. Uncomfortable, at least, for Kyro.
"Funny," Dalken said lightly. "You don't strike me as the type who avoids eating just because he isn't hungry."
Was that a dig, or a neutral observation? Kyro couldn't tell. Dalken seemed adept at riding that line. In any case, he was right. Kyro wasn't known for shunning food. Nobody in the Ashen District was. The difference was that he didn't accept free meals from strangers, or pretend to belong where he clearly didn't.
"I have a prior arrangement I need to get to," Kyro replied, which was technically true.
Dalken chuckled. "Fair enough. Don't worry. I'll try not to take much more of your time."
The water arrived. Kyro took a slow, cautious sip.
Nothing could have prepared him for it. Cool, effervescent, impossibly clean, it glided across his tongue, leaving him aching for more. He emptied the glass, ordered another, and drained that too.
Throughout it all, Dalken watched with mild amusement. Kyro didn't care.
Some things transcended embarrassment.
"So," Dalken said when he was done, "you're probably wondering why I asked to speak with you in private."
That was the elephant in the room.
"It's about the woman you nearly collided with earlier."
"Oh?"
"Her name is Serayne Isles. She's a... problematic Class 1 Creator I was tasked with bringing in," Dalken said. "Fast, irritatingly competent, and, as I'm sure you're now keenly aware, dangerous. Long story short, she'd still be cornered if not for my lapse in judgement. What better escape route than a dense crowd of civilians?"
Kyro looked up. "You're saying she got away because of you."
"Yes," Dalken said plainly. "Which puts me in your debt."
"Debt?" Kyro frowned. "I didn't do anything."
"You survived," Dalken replied, as if stating a self-evident fact. "In my line of work, that counts. More than you'd think."
He paused.
"If it helps, I don't believe Serayne was actually aiming for you. Through no fault of your own, you appeared in her blind spot at the worst possible moment." A faint smile tugged at his lips. "I assumed your death was inevitable. Imagine my surprise when you stepped clear, sparing her a civilian casualty, and sparing me from taking more drastic measures."
He inclined his head.
"So yes. I, Dalken Morlen, am indebted to you, Resourceful Stranger. And so is the rogue, though I doubt she'd appreciate hearing it."
Kyro exhaled slowly.
Of all the explanations he'd imagined, that hadn't been one of them.