Ronan waited until Sarael was fully asleep before he made his move. Her breathing had evened out, her fingers finally relaxed against the mattress instead of reaching for him.

She looked peaceful. It was a good look on her.

He pulled out his phone and opened one of the old porter forums. The interface was garbage, deliberately so.

Nobody who mattered used polished apps or official channels. The easier an app was to use, the more users would flood it, and the higher the chance the Association would shut it down.

But an app that was only usable if you were desperate enough to figure out its garbage interface? That was the kind of hidden channel that stayed safe, because nobody with better options would ever touch it.

He’d been one of those people for three years. Now he was logging in as a fugitive.

His old account still worked. That was almost sad. The username was the same one he’d used since he was nineteen and fresh out of his hunter exam, back when he still thought being a porter was a stepping stone to something better.

"NightPorter15, we meet again..."

The profile picture was blank. The post history was boring. Errand requests. Availability notices. The digital footprint of a man nobody had ever bothered to watch.

He navigated to the private messaging section and pulled up a contact he hadn’t spoken to in over a year. The guy’s handle was just a string of numbers.

No name. No profile. No identifying information whatsoever. Ronan didn’t even know what the guy looked like. They’d only ever communicated through text, and that was exactly how the fixer liked it.

The message Ronan typed was short and careful.

NightPorter15: I need work. Cash. Off the books. You know who I am. If you’re not interested, don’t reply. If you are, name a place.

He sent it before he could second-guess himself. Then he closed the phone and set it face-down on a nearby table like it might bite him.

The waiting was the worst part. Back in the old days, waiting for a fixer to reply meant pacing around his apartment, checking his phone every thirty seconds, wondering if this would be the job that finally got him noticed by a real guild. Now it meant staring at a dark screen while the entire country hunted him.

But at least now he didn’t have to wait alone.

The phone buzzed.

Ronan snatched up the phone and opened the message.

16259: I know who you are. Everyone in the country does, technically. Work’s available, but it’s not porter work. You still interested?

Ronan typed back immediately.

NightPorter15: I’m not a porter anymore. What’s the job?

The reply came faster this time. The fixer was either curious or desperate. Maybe both.

16259: Retrieval job. Some small-time guild screwed over a client, took his expensive sword over some dispute. He wants it back. Stealthily. You in?

NightPorter15: Have you seen the news? I can do that.

16259: Yeah, bet you can after escaping containment without a trace. Might even get you more stealth jobs if you want.

NightPorter15: Preferably jobs at night. Nothing during the day. That fine?

16259: Sure, they’re not that hard to find. But quick reminder, change your username and delete contacts you don’t need. It’s way too obvious.

Ronan stared at the last message. The fixer was right. NightPorter15 was the handle he’d used for three years, the same one tied to his old porter license, his old life, his old identity. Anyone with half a brain could connect it to him. The Association definitely had half a brain. Maybe more.

He navigated to his account settings and stared at the username field. Changing it felt wrong somehow. Like he was erasing the last trace of who he used to be.

But the old him was already gone. The old him had died in Tartarus-B, crawling toward a shrine with his side split open. The man who walked out wasn’t NightPorter15 anymore.

He typed in a new handle without overthinking it.

GodBound.

The name felt appropriate. Not subtle, but subtlety didn’t matter when your face was already on every news feed in the country.

What mattered was honesty. He was God-Bound. That was the class. That was the bond. That was the only thing keeping him alive.

Besides, GodBound was vague enough. Most people would probably think it was just some edgy wannabe trying to sound tough while fishing for underground jobs.

The kind of handle a C-Rank with delusions of grandeur slapped on his profile before begging fixers for work that paid more than minimum wage.

No one would suspect the account’s handler was the country’s newest most wanted.

He switched back to the conversation and confirmed the job details. The fixer sent over a location, a description of the target guild’s building, and a rough layout of where the sword was being kept.

Nothing too detailed, but enough to work with. The pay was decent. Not life-changing, but enough to keep him fed and supplied for a few weeks.

Ronan committed the details to memory, then deleted the conversation. He went through his contact list next, purging every name that wasn’t essential. Old clients. Former coworkers. Hunters who’d hired him once and never thought about him again. All of them, gone.

By the time he finished, his account was stripped down to the bones

He set the phone down and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The plan was in motion. Step one, information, was handled for now. Step two, resources, was on its way. Step three was still asleep on his mattress, her shadows curled around her like a blanket.

And step four, the skill evolution point, was waiting for her to wake up.

Ronan closed his eyes and let himself breathe. Tomorrow, or whenever Sarael woke up, they’d figure out the skill. Tonight, he’d rest.

"Still got a few days’ worth of food left. Enough for breakfast, lunch, and dinner tomorrow. After that, I’ll hit the guild at midnight."