I had taken my break.
As much as I enjoyed spending time with the girls, I couldn't sit around forever. Anthony was still going through the files, and until he had something useful, I was at a standstill. That meant it was time to focus on my jobs again.
But there was a problem.
I hadn't gained a single skill from becoming a boxer.
It was weird. I remembered getting my Lawyer Portfolio instantly, and with it, I expected a flood of skills. But this time? Nothing.
Was this another case of my Instinct skill stopping me from gaining something? If so, why?
I exhaled through my nose. It was frustrating, but I had no choice but to trust my own subconscious.
For now, I needed to train.
I grabbed my new mask—the Beetle Mask—and slipped it on. The weight was reassuring. Strong, durable, built for impact.
Now, I just needed a trainer.
The first gym was a bust.
I had barely stepped in when I was met with uneasy stares. People whispered behind their gloves. The trainer at the front desk barely looked at me before saying, "We're not taking new students."
I knew that was a lie.
I checked my phone. Their site literally advertised open slots.
Fifteen gyms later, I was still without a trainer.
At first, I thought it was because I had forgotten to set up my Mr. Beetle I.D—a dumb mistake on my part, since they couldn't tell I had a Boxer job. But they never even asked for one. I soon realized the real reason.
People knew what it meant.
Even though the Masked Syndicate had won the trial and proven our innocence, we were still controversial. People saw the mask and immediately thought: trouble.
No trainer wanted to be associated with that.
I felt... frustrated.
Not angry. Just tired.
All my life, I had fought for opportunities. When I was an F-Rank, nobody wanted to give me a chance. I clawed my way up, proved myself, and forced my way into places that once ignored me.
Yet, here I was again.
I exhaled sharply, shoving my hands into my pockets. By now, the sky had darkened, the last remnants of daylight bleeding into the horizon.
Not home. Just... aimlessly.
Trying to clear my head.
A voice pulled me from my thoughts.
It was quiet, raspy, almost lost beneath the murmur of passing cars. But it still reached me.
I slowed my steps and turned.
There was homeless man with his knees tucked tightly to his chest, who was leaning against the brick wall of a closed convenience store. His garments were threadbare, nearly falling apart at the seams, the material tattered and soiled from countless nights in the open air. His jacket—if it could truly be called that—was a worn windbreaker, zipped up to his neck regardless of how little heat it could offer.
His visage was gaunt, his cheekbones pronounced, his skin was pale with that unhealthy, hollow appearance of someone who had not eaten adequately for an extended period. His hands, placed on his lap, were coarse and split, with nails that were irregular and rough. However, what was most striking were his glasses—one lens was completely absent, while the other was shattered with cracks, rendering it nearly ineffective.
He glanced at me, and for just a moment, I noticed the weariness in his gaze. The kind that went beyond mere hunger or chill.
It was the exhaustion of someone who had been surviving for far too long.
Something tightened in my chest.
I had never been homeless, but I knew that kind of struggle. The uncertainty. The desperation that clawed at your stomach when you didn't know where your next meal would come from. I remembered what it was like to be an F-Rank, scraping by, being ignored, dismissed.
I had climbed out of that hole.
But not everyone could.
I reached into my pocket, fingers brushing against crumpled bills. When I pulled one out and saw the $100 printed in bold ink, I hesitated.
Years ago, that amount would've been unthinkable to hand over. Back then, I would have stared at a bill , turned it over in my hands just to make sure it was real.
It was pocket change.
The realization left a strange taste in my mouth.
I crouched down and held the bill out to him.
His hand hovered in the air, uncertain, as if afraid to take it. "I—are you sure?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Take it."
The words came out effortlessly, but seeing his response made my stomach turn.
Gently, unsurely, his fingers glided over the bill before ultimately grasping it. He fixated on it, blinking vigorously, as if he anticipated it to vanish at any moment.
For an extended period, he simply remained seated, his breath escaping in irregular bursts. Then, as if reality had truly sunk in, he emitted a soft, breathless laugh.
"God..." His voice trembled with feeling. "You can't imagine what this means for me."
I exhaled, standing back up. "It's alright."
I turned away, already preparing to walk off.
"You're a kind man, Reynard."
A cold shock went through my body, sharp enough that my next step halted mid-air.
I hadn't said my name.
I hadn't even hinted at it.
For a second, my mind scrambled for an explanation. Had I let something slip? Did I have something on me that gave it away?
I had been wearing my mask the whole time.
Slowly—very slowly—I turned back.
The homeless man was looking at me.
And for the first time, I felt like I was the one being judged.
The streetlights overhead cast long shadows over his face, making his expression unreadable. His cracked glasses caught the glow, obscuring his eyes just enough that I couldn't tell what he was thinking.
Like he had been waiting for me.
The wind picked up, chilling the night air.
I should have felt the same, but for some reason—
Like the weight of something unseen had just settled onto my shoulders.