"Listen kid, I don’t know if you can’t hear or something, but—"

The touch triggered something.

James saw his mother’s phone ringing unanswered. The destroyed house. The note threatening her. His father’s corpse in a wooden box seven years ago. Derek’s smug face. Uncle’s theft. Years of powerlessness.

Someone touching him like he was still that powerless kid.

He didn’t finish the sentence.

James’s hand moved to his inventory and his B-rank sword materialized instantly in his grip. In the same motion, he drove the blade forward and up, under the bald guy’s ribs, piercing straight through to the heart. The movement was fast, practiced, cold. No hesitation. No warning.

The bald guy’s eyes went wide with shock. His mouth opened but no sound came out except a wet gasp. He looked down at the sword buried in his chest, then back up at James’s face. His expression was pure disbelief, the look of someone who doesn’t understand what just happened or why.

What the fuck, his face seemed to say. What the actual fuck.

Then his legs gave out and he dropped. James pulled the sword free as the body fell and blood sprayed across the pavement. The corpse hit the ground with a heavy thud and lay still, dark blood pooling rapidly around it.

The smoker dropped his cigarette in shock. He stumbled backward, his hand fumbling for a radio clipped to his belt. He managed to grab it and brought it to his mouth, his voice shaking.

"There’s a weirdo out here! He just—he killed Martin! He fucking killed—"

A voice crackled through the radio, confused and annoyed. "What the fuck are you saying, man? Is this a joke?"

The smoker didn’t get a chance to respond.

James was already moving. His sword came down in a horizontal slash, clean and efficient. The blade cut through the smoker’s neck before he could react. The head separated from the body and fell, hitting the pavement and rolling a few feet before coming to rest against a shipping container.

The body stood for a second, blood fountaining from the neck stump, then collapsed.

James sheathed his sword and grabbed the headless corpse by the jacket. He dragged it toward the warehouse entrance, positioning it right in front of the partially open door. Then he activated Corpse Explosion, targeting the body directly.

The explosion was massive in the confined space.

The corpse detonated with a blast of necrotic energy and physical force that tore through the entrance. The rolling metal door was blown completely off its track and sent flying inward, crashing into whatever was inside with a tremendous BANG that echoed across the warehouse district like thunder. Smoke and debris billowed outward, pieces of the door and chunks of concrete scattering across the pavement.

James stood outside the now-open entrance. His sword was drawn again and his face was completely calm despite what he’d just done.

He could hear shouting from inside the warehouse. People yelling in confusion and alarm. Footsteps running in multiple directions. Someone screaming "What the hell was that?!" Another voice shouting orders that were lost in the chaos.

James walked forward into the smoke and through the destroyed entrance, stepping over debris and the remains of the door. His mismatched eyes were cold and his grip was tight on his sword.

Whoever was inside, whatever was waiting for him, he was done with talking.

Meanwhile, across Dublin at her sister’s house, James’s mother sat in the living room with Anne.

It was late evening, around eleven PM, but they were both still up talking and drinking tea. Anne’s house was modest but comfortable, a two-bedroom place in Cabra. The living room was warm and cozy, with worn furniture and family photos on the mantelpiece. The TV was on low in the background, showing news coverage about the Tower reset.

James’s mother was practically glowing with excitement. She was wearing nicer clothes than usual, nothing expensive but clearly new. She couldn’t stop smiling.

Anne, a few years older with graying hair and laugh lines around her eyes, listened with a mixture of happiness and disbelief. She’d set out a plate of biscuits between them, the good ones she saved for special occasions.

"We moved," James’s mother said. "James bought us a house. A real house. In Killiney."

Anne’s teacup stopped halfway to her mouth. Her eyes widened. "Killiney? How did he afford that?"

James’s mother hesitated, then smiled. "He’s been doing well in the Tower. Better than I ever imagined."

"How well?" Anne pressed.

"Well enough that we don’t have to worry about rent anymore. Or bills. Or..." She trailed off, her eyes getting slightly wet. "Well enough that everything’s changed."

Anne set down her teacup carefully. "Those houses in Killiney don’t come cheap."

"They don’t," James’s mother agreed quietly. "He has some kind of special class. Legendary rank. And he’s working with the TRB—the Tower Regulation Bureau." She lowered her voice slightly. "I don’t talk about the details, Anne. After everything with his uncles, I’ve learned to be careful. But he’s safe and he’s making honest money and that’s what matters."

Anne reached over and squeezed her hand. "You deserve it. Both of you. After what you’ve been through."

James’s mother squeezed back. "I know. It still doesn’t feel real sometimes."

Anne picked up a biscuit. "And I saw him on the broadcast. The one with the angel. That was really James? Standing there with all those other challengers?"

"That was my son," James’s mother said with pride. There was warmth in her voice, the kind that only comes from genuine maternal love. "Breaking records, standing in front of an angel, shown to the whole world."

She pulled out her phone and found a screenshot from the broadcast, showing James standing in the group of challengers.

"Do you remember how shy he used to be as a child?" James’s mother asked, looking at the photo. "He could barely talk to adults without hiding behind me. And now look at him—standing in front of the whole world."

Anne leaned closer to look at the photo. "Kids grow up. Sometimes in ways we never expect." She paused, then added gently, "He looks like his father in this photo. Around the eyes."

James’s mother’s smile softened. "I know. I see it too." Her voice dropped quieter. "I just wish his father could have seen this. He would have been so proud."

Anne reached over and squeezed her hand again. "I’m sure he knows. Somehow."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. The TV murmured in the background about Tower statistics and Ireland’s first clear of Floor Forty-Five in ninety years.

James’s mother picked up her teacup again. "I have pictures of the house if you want to see. The kitchen is beautiful."

She started scrolling through her phone’s photo gallery, showing Anne pictures of their new home, completely unaware that across the city, her son was walking into a warehouse with a sword in his hand, killing people because he thought she’d been taken.

The contrast was complete. She sat in her sister’s warm living room, drinking tea and celebrating their new life, while James committed violence in the dark, acting on a threat that didn’t exist.

The note had been a trap, but not the kind James thought.

And he wouldn’t know until it was too late.