James froze when he saw the young man in the expensive suit standing in front of him.

Derek’s smile widened as he took in James’s reaction, and his voice carried that same condescending tone James remembered from funerals and family gatherings. "Well, well. Stop looking like you’ve seen a ghost, cousin."

The lobby noise faded to background static. James’s hands curled into fists at his sides while his heartbeat pounded in his ears, and the overpowering smell of expensive cologne hit him like a physical thing. Derek stepped closer with his gold watch catching the light, wearing a suit that cost more than James’s old rent, his hair slicked back with too much product. Two lackeys flanked him in slightly cheaper suits, both wearing the same smug expression their boss had.

"Nothing to say?" Derek asked, his voice getting louder instead of quieter, and James realized with a sinking feeling that Derek wanted the crowd to hear this. "I heard you finally crawled out of whatever hole you’ve been hiding in. Took you long enough."

James said nothing, his jaw tight as he watched Derek perform for the growing audience of Climbers and TRB staff who’d stopped to watch the scene unfold.

"Look at you," Derek continued, gesturing at James’s clothes with a theatrical wave of his hand. "Still dressing like you shop at charity bins. Some things never change, do they?" He laughed, the sound carrying across the lobby. "But I suppose when your father dies leaving you with nothing, you make do with what you can get."

The mention of his father made James’s fists tighten further, but he kept his voice level when he spoke. "What do you want, Derek?"

"Want? From you?" Derek’s eyebrows rose in mock surprise, and he turned to his lackeys with an exaggerated expression of disbelief before looking back at James. "I don’t want anything from you, cousin. I’m just surprised to see you here. The Tower Registration Bureau isn’t exactly the kind of place for people like you." He paused, letting the insult hang in the air. "Or did your mother finally scrape together enough from her cleaning jobs to afford the registration fee?"

One of the lackeys snickered, and James felt something cold settle in his chest.

"My father always said your family would have starved if it weren’t for his generosity," Derek went on, warming to his subject now that he had an audience. "Carrying you lot financially for years, and what did he get for it? Nothing but headaches and complaints." His voice dripped with false sympathy. "Such a shame about the business, really. If only your father had been better at managing money, maybe things would have turned out differently."

The lie was so blatant that James almost laughed. Derek’s father hadn’t carried them financially—he’d stolen everything they had, forged documents, and left James’s family with nothing while the Gannons walked away with a fortune. But James knew better than to argue about it here, in front of witnesses, where Derek controlled the narrative.

"I’m leaving," James said, moving to step around Derek.

Derek’s hand shot out to grab his shoulder, stopping him. "Now, now. Don’t be rude. We’re family, after all." His grip tightened, fingers digging in. "You should show some respect to the people who actually made something of themselves instead of wallowing in poverty like your—"

"Let go," James said quietly.

"Or what?" Derek leaned in closer, his cologne overwhelming, his voice dropping to a stage whisper that still carried to the watching crowd. "You’ll do what exactly? You’ve got nothing, James. You are nothing. Just like your whore of a mother who—"

James’s fist connected with Derek’s jaw before the sentence finished.

The impact sent Derek crashing into the help desk, scattering pamphlets everywhere as he went down hard. The lobby erupted with screams and shouts while Derek spat blood onto the polished floor, and his lackeys stumbled back in shock as if they couldn’t quite process what had just happened.

Security started running over from their station near the entrance.

Derek staggered to his feet, one hand pressed to his jaw, blood running between his fingers. His eyes were wide with humiliation because everyone had witnessed this, every single person in the lobby had seen him get dropped by the cousin he’d just been mocking. "You fucking piece of—"

"Everything alright here?" A security guard arrived, slightly out of breath, his hand resting on his baton.

Derek straightened his ruined suit, spitting more blood, his face flushed with rage and embarrassment. He pointed at James with a shaking finger. "You have no idea what you just did. My father has connections across Dublin’s entire Tower supply chain. Every major Climber organization, every guild, every equipment manufacturer." His voice rose with each word. "You’re finished. You hear me? Finished."

He turned and stormed toward the exit, his lackeys scrambling to follow. One of them looked back at James with an expression that clearly said you just fucked up, before they all disappeared through the glass doors.

The security guard turned to James. "What happened?"

"Family disagreement," James said, flexing his throbbing knuckles.

"You want to file a report?"

"No."

The guard studied him for a moment longer before nodding and walking away to disperse the crowd of onlookers who were already pulling out their phones to spread the gossip. James stood there alone, the adrenaline starting to fade, reality setting in about what he’d just done. He’d punched his cousin in front of the Tower Registration Bureau, in front of witnesses, in front of people who would absolutely tell Derek’s father exactly what happened.

"James Ganner."

The voice came from behind him, cold and neutral, and James turned to find himself facing a man he recognized. Finn Hale stood there with his arms crossed, the same guy from the Tutorial who’d wielded a battleaxe. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with short dark hair and the kind of build that came from actual combat training rather than gym memberships.

James’s mind raced, trying to figure out why Finn Hale was talking to him.

"Yeah," James said cautiously.

"You’re the necromancer from the Tutorial," Finn stated rather than asked, his tone remaining flat and professional. "Have you cleared Floor 4 yet?"

"Yeah."

"What level?"

"Nine."

Finn nodded once, as if confirming something he’d already suspected. "I’m building a five-person party for Floor 5. Need to avoid the random matchmaking system." His eyes were steady, calculating. "You want in?"

James blinked, caught off guard by the directness. "You want me to join your team?"

"Yes."

No elaboration, no explanation beyond the practical reasoning. Finn’s assessment was simple and brutal—James was the right level and had survived the Tutorial.

"Alright," James said, because what else was he going to say? Finn Hale was offering him exactly what he needed: a competent team for Floor 5 instead of rolling the dice with random strangers.

"I’ll contact you with details," Finn said, already turning to leave. "Soon."

Then he walked away without waiting for a response, disappearing into the crowd as efficiently as he’d appeared.

James stood there for another moment, processing everything that had just happened in the span of ten minutes. He’d punched Derek, gotten recruited by Finn Hale, and potentially made an enemy of one of Dublin’s most connected families.

Outside the TRB building, Derek stumbled against the wall and leaned there, blood dripping from his mouth onto his ruined suit. His jaw was already swelling, and when one of his companions tried to help him, Derek shoved him off hard enough that the man nearly fell.

"Young Master Derek, we should get you to a—"

"Shut up," Derek said, then laughed bitterly. The sound came out wet and painful. "The poor bastard actually thinks he won."

He pulled out his phone with shaking fingers and scrolled through his contacts until he found the name he wanted. The line rang twice before someone picked up.

"Well, well." The voice on the other end was smooth and professional, like expensive whiskey. "It’s been a long time since Young Master Derek called. What happened to ’I won’t need you again’?"

Derek smiled with blood-stained teeth. "I’ve got a job for you."

"Is that so?" A pause. "Must be important if you’re calling me directly instead of going through your father."

"It’s personal," Derek said, watching his reflection in the TRB’s glass windows. His jaw was going to bruise spectacularly. "And I want it done quietly."

"Quiet costs extra."

"I don’t care what it costs." Derek’s voice hardened. "I want information first. Everything on James Ganner. Where he lives, where he goes, who he talks to. Then we’ll discuss next steps."

"James Ganner," the voice repeated, as if tasting the name. "Never heard of him. What did he do?"

"He put his hands on me in public at the TRB," Derek said, his voice tight.

"Someone got bold." The voice carried a note of amusement. "You want me to find out everything about him."

"Everything. Where he lives, where he goes, who he talks to. Then we’ll discuss next steps."

"Consider it done. I’ll have a full profile by tomorrow evening, but this is going to be expensive."

"I said I don’t care."

"Good. I’ll be in touch."

The line went dead.

Derek pocketed his phone and pushed off the wall, ignoring the concerned looks from his companions. His jaw throbbed with every heartbeat, but the pain was already fading into the background, replaced by something colder and more focused.

James Ganner had embarrassed him in front of witnesses. Had put hands on him like some common street thug. Had made him look weak.

That couldn’t stand.

James stepped out of the TRB building into Dublin’s afternoon air, his knuckles still throbbing from the punch. The skin across his middle two knuckles was split and already starting to swell, but the pain felt distant compared to the satisfaction of watching Derek hit the ground.

He flexed his hand experimentally, wincing at the ache.

But right now he had €4.5 million in his account and needed a house before Derek’s father decided to make his life difficult. He flagged down a cab and slid into the back seat.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

"Nearest real estate agency," James said.

Twenty minutes later, the cab dropped him off in front of a modern glass building with "Coastal Properties Dublin" written in elegant silver letters across the facade. James paid the driver and stepped through the doors into an office that smelled like fresh paint and expensive coffee.

A woman in her mid-thirties looked up from the front desk, her tailored suit professional without being stuffy. She smiled warmly as he approached, the kind of practiced greeting that said she’d done this a thousand times before.

"Good afternoon," she said. "How can I help you today?"

James met her eyes and said the words he’d been waiting fifteen years to say.

"I’m looking for a house with an ocean view."