"This time... a D-Rank Dungeon."
.
The words escaped in a sigh as she walked along the wet city sidewalk, absentmindedly dodging a puddle reflecting the gray clouds. The young woman adjusted her glasses on her face with an ink-stained finger — as always — and tightened her impeccably aligned cloak around her body, although the tangled reddish-brown bun gave a touch of chaos to her organized look.
.
She gestured to herself as she walked, with the distant expression of someone deeply debating her own thoughts.
"I still can't believe that day..."
The day in question? She still dreamed about him — or rather, about him.
The man she had seen emerge from the crater in the ground like a creature from another world: shirtless, covered in dried blood, sand and raw magic, as if he had crossed a battlefield alone and won. The image was so vivid that it had become almost mythical among the members of the Association. And she... was one of the first to witness it.
"'A man... shirtless, covered in dried blood and sand, with the expression of someone who has emerged from a nightmare and survived'..." she murmured, repeating to herself as if rereading a scene written in her diary.
She shook her head with a sigh, returning to the present. Ahead of her, the city avenues buzzed with the sounds of cars and the constant murmur of digital notifications hovering on overhead panels. But her destination was not a café or an office...
It was a D-Rank Dungeon.
She had received the summons a few hours before—a joint Raid with prisoners. A recent and controversial system of reducing sentences in exchange for participation in low-risk portals.
Fighting alongside criminals was the kind of thing she avoided on principle. But this time...
"'...I need to make money, or I won't pay this month's rent.'" she muttered bitterly, closing her eyes for a moment, as if she heard her own financial instincts screaming in desperation.
She turned the corner and the meeting point appeared ahead: an empty square with an Association tent already set up, equipment being distributed, and, in the background, the blue whirlwind of the Dungeon wavering in the air, like an open wound in reality.
Her step faltered for only a second.
Then she adjusted her glasses, puffed out her chest, raised her head and whispered to herself:
"You can do it, Eliza. Just stay away from the criminals, don't get into trouble and... try not to die. That would be bad for the budget."
Eliza quickened her pace, trying not to think too much about how much the electricity bill had gone up or whether there was enough milk for tomorrow's breakfast. The city, wet with drizzle, took on a melancholic tone, and even with the buzzing of the digital panels and the noise of the cars around her, she was lost in her own reveries.
.
It was then that, distracted, she didn't notice the figure standing right in the middle of the sidewalk.
THUMPS.
"— Agh!"
She recoiled from the impact, her glasses slipping almost to the tip of her nose. When she looked up, she froze.
Right in front of her was a tall man—imposing. His body was slender but strong, with well-defined muscles under a dark T-shirt that was tight to his torso. His tanned skin glowed slightly under the gray light of the city, and his dark hair, slightly messed up by the rain, framed a sharp, serious... and beautiful face. But what hit her most like a punch in the stomach were his golden, intense, almost feline eyes.
Eliza's breath caught for a moment. Her heart skipped a beat.
'H-he looks just like that guy...!'
She barely moved, her eyes wide, her mind screaming that it was impossible — and yet the air around her felt different, denser, like that day.
"Are you okay?" his voice sounded deep, calm, filled with a natural authority that made her straighten her posture automatically.
"I-I... yes! I'm sorry, I'm really sorry!" she stammered, bowing quickly, as if she wanted to disappear right then and there.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly not understanding her sudden nervousness, but didn't comment. He just nodded lightly.
"Be careful. There's a lot of movement around here." And then, he turned around, walking calmly back towards the Association tent — towards the same dungeon where Eliza was climbing.
She stood there for a moment, completely paralyzed.
'It can't be... it can't be the same... but he's so similar... the look... the way he talks... even the voice...'
Her face was burning. She felt like a teenager without control of her own mind, and at the same time... something deep in her chest told her that this meeting was not a coincidence.
The sound of the light rain was muffled by the fabric of the tent set up next to the portal. Eliza remained silent, keeping a respectful distance from the man with golden eyes, still stunned by his presence. She tried not to stare at him too much, but she felt every second she spent with him drain her composure.
It was then that the muffled roar of an engine announced the arrival of the transport.
A black Guild van pulled up in front of the tent. The doors opened with a hydraulic click, and two uniformed Guild members quickly climbed out, one of them turning the side latch to unlock the rear compartment.
With a dull thud, the side door slid aside—and out stepped three handcuffed men, all wearing the standard uniforms of cooperative raid prisoners: sturdy but metal-free clothing with the letters "CCPR" emblazoned on the back (Containment Center for Re-Educational Prisoners).
As soon as they stepped onto the wet pavement, the three began to laugh among themselves as if they were going to an amusement park.
"Look at this," said the first, a scarred-faced brute with a crooked smile. "We're going to enter a dungeon and still get some hot company?" He whistled provocatively. "That one with the glasses is all proper... she must be the type who moans softly..."
The second one laughed out loud, his eyes mischievous. "Hahaha! What's up, kitten? Are you afraid of being stuck with us in the dark?"
"Hey, hey... watch your tone," warned one of the Association employees, already frowning.
But the third prisoner, the thinnest and with the calculating look, smirked and murmured, glancing at Eliza:
"This one's a little lab whore, huh? I bet she's never really gotten her hands dirty... she's going to get all wet in there..."
Eliza remained motionless for a moment.
The blood rushed to her face — not from shame, but from contained rage. Her fists clenched at her sides, her shoulders firm. She stepped forward, staring directly at the second speaker, her eyes behind her glasses taking on a sharp glint.
The first prisoner snickered—until the man next to Eliza moved.
It was just one step. That was all.
But it was enough for the atmosphere to change drastically.
The three prisoners froze as golden eyes flashed beneath the shadow of the tent flap. The man stared at them silently, his expression neutral, but there was something in that look—something that screamed in the guts of the three convicts, like an animal instinct saying: stop now.
None of them dared to respond. The silence that followed was almost physical.
Eliza blinked, surprised by the effect. She glanced at him.
The man simply crossed his arms, as if nothing had happened.
One of the Association members approached, pulling back the hood of his sodden cloak and sighing in barely concealed irritation. His voice was dry, authoritative.
"Shut up, you idiots." He glared at the three men. "This is no picnic. If you disrupt the raid or cause any trouble, we'll leave you inside. No one will cry over a dead prisoner."