"Care for a game?" Zeke asked in a snarky manner.

"I'll pass," Fredric sighed, placing the bags on the kitchen counter.

"What? You a coward?" Mohawk taunted.

"No," Fredric replied, "I just don't plan on ending up like you two."

"You hear that, Bun? He's a coward," Mohawk continued.

"You know he's cheating, right?" Fredric shook his head.

"What!" Bun and Mohawk exclaimed in unison.

"He's changing the values of the cards using magic as they're dealt," Fredric explained.

"But he's a leggy, and the alarm didn't go off," Bun pondered.

"A leggy," Fredric smirked. "I'm guessing this takes so little mana that Ordinus doesn't pick it up."

The two stood up, visibly angered, their brows furrowing as they spread their frames to occupy more space—standing naked like two bald peacocks displaying nonexistent plumage.

"You cheated us!" Mohawk shouted.

"Well, you never said I wasn't allowed to cheat," Zeke touched his chin, seemingly in thought. "Anyways, what do the two of you do for a living?" he asked.

Mohawk sighed. "We're handymen," he said.

"Handymen?" Zeke raised an eyebrow.

"We do things for people," Mohawk explained.

"Dangerous things for dangerous people!" Bun added enthusiastically.

"Perfect!" Zeke stood up. "I've just thought of a way for the two of you to buy your stuff back from me!"

"And that is?" Mohawk wondered.

"I'll give you guys two jobs. Complete them, and we're even," Zeke explained.

"Oh no!" Mohawk protested. "One job for the stuff and another job for money!"

"That's right!" Bun chimed in. "Five hundred credits at the very least!"

"How about this?" Zeke sighed. "One job for your stuff and another for your lives, which you forfeited by breaking into my home."

He stared deeply into Mohawk's eyes, freezing him in place—the gaze of a predator cornering its prey.

"On the other hand," Mohawk stammered, "that sounds like a fair deal, doesn't it, Bun?"

"Oh yeah, super fair," Bun agreed, his voice trembling.

"I'm glad you see it that way," Zeke smiled.

"So what's the job?" Mohawk asked cautiously.

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Zeke slowly approached the closet. He took a deep breath as he opened its doors, revealing a mummified corpse wrapped in countless layers of duct tape. A fleeting shadow of pain crossed his eyes.

"I'm guessing you're familiar with this type of work?" Zeke asked, his voice tinged with a sorrowful undertone.

"Who's that?" Bun blurted out tactlessly.

"My mother," Zeke replied, a hollow smile masking the turmoil within. "Your first task is to get rid of this corpse. Bury it somewhere nice on the outskirts of the city and tell me the location. Don't just carelessly dump it, or I'll kill you," he warned, his tone turning icy. He cleared his throat as Fredric looked on with a mixture of curiosity and concern. "As for the second task," he continued, "you are to look into a certain someone—a person known as the Bull-head Boxer. That person died some time ago; however, you are to find his two students, Mitch and Jamie, and lead me to them. Any questions?" he asked sternly.

"Can we put on our clothes before we leave?" Bun wondered.

"Get the fuck out of here already," Fredric interjected, visibly annoyed.

Mohawk and Bun hastily dressed before retrieving an old guitar case from their place and carefully stuffing the body inside. They took the monorail to the outskirts of Lower Babel. On their frequent escapades to dispose of bodies and stolen goods, they had accidentally stumbled upon a remarkably scenic spot: an abandoned white chapel surrounded by a field of pristine white flowers—a perfect place to lay someone important to rest. Initially, they had planned to bury each other there, or at least the first to go, but now that this place had become their ticket to survival, it seemed a fair price to pay.

"This is bullshit!" Mohawk grumbled, adjusting the weight of the guitar case.

"Shh! What if he hears you?" Bun whispered nervously, his eyes darting around the moonlit landscape.

"He's not here!" Mohawk snapped, though a hint of doubt edged his voice.

"That guy was real scary, you know," Bun whimpered, recalling the cold intensity in Zeke's eyes.

"Yeah, you're right. But what really pissed me off was that blond guy! Who did he think he was, acting all high and mighty like that? I could tell just by looking at him that he's a wimp; I bet I could easily take him!" Mohawk blustered, attempting to regain his confidence.

"Really?" Bun asked, a glimmer of hope flickering in his eyes.

"Really," Mohawk smirked, then frowned. "Anyway, what did we do to deserve this?"

"We broke into his home," Bun reminded him softly.

"But that blond guy broke in too!" Mohawk shouted.

"I'm pretty sure he was invited," Bun sighed.

"Shut up, it's all his fault, I'm telling you," Mohawk grumbled as they finally reached the field.

Before them stood a gaunt figure, his salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a loose ponytail, drenched in the heavy silver of moonlight. The pale glow highlighted the sharp angles of his face, his sorrowful expression seeming to both radiate and absorb the light. A short, scruffy beard and a worn black leather eyepatch covering his left eye lent him an air of weathered mystery. He wore a tattered black coat that merged with the surrounding shadows, as if he were part of the night itself. Across his chest lay a scratched metal plate, visibly damaged and clinging to its last purpose.

An eerie silence enveloped the field, broken only by the distant rustling of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze. The scent of damp earth and blooming flowers mingled in the air, a stark contrast to the tension tightening in Mohawk's chest. The man's presence was like a shadow given form—a wraith stepping out from the veil of night.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" the mysterious man asked.

"Who the fuck are you?" Mohawk demanded, taking an aggressive stance.

"I'm a nobody," the man smiled softly, slowly approaching the two.

His every step was light and effortless, like a ghost—a wandering spirit lost in the world of the living.

"Worry not, fellow undertakers. I shan't disturb you any further," he said, inching ever closer.

But Mohawk couldn't shake the uneasy sensation that at any moment, this peaceful figure might transform into a savage, unstoppable force.

As he was about to pass them, the man paused. "You're being followed," he whispered. Their eyes met, and Mohawk's pupil quivered, as if it might leap from his eye at any second.

The figure vanished into the shadows, leaving only the whisper of his warning hanging in the air.

Mohawk and Bun proceeded to bury the body in uneasy silence.

"I think that was the Pale Reaper," Bun mumbled, his voice barely audible over the rustling wind.

"Yeah, I think so too," Mohawk replied, his gaze fixed straight ahead, afraid to look back—as if the man were still watching them from the veil of darkness.

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