[Gulliver Area 1, House K, Room 2]

The light shone bright inside the house, the aroma of cooking clinging thick in the air, carried far by the breeze outside.

In the sitting room, Jamie worked out, push-ups, relentless and precise. Sweat slicked his face, rekindling memories of the forest, of the assassins who'd once ambushed him. But this was different. He was stronger now. He had a tangible goal. His mind and soul were fixed on one thing: becoming strong enough to deliver justice to anyone who deserved it.

They'd finished their part of the mission. The journey had brought them to a bar, spacious, with an aquarium tucked in one corner. Not as packed as you'd expect a Midworld bar to be. It was handsome, really, more so than its surroundings, a hidden gem, underrated but full of character. Along the way, they'd been met consistently by a few working girls.

"You wanna have fun?" one purred, voice dripping like honey laced with poison, as if a roll in the sheets might cure them of some fatal plague.

They flashed their bare, shapely legs, a well-worn trick to rouse the kraken sleeping in every man.

"We're good, love!" Bray would reply, his British lilt smooth as silk, charming even as he turned them down.

*Squeak.*

He pulled himself onto an empty tall barstool. Next to him sat a wiry old man, back bent like a question mark, dressed head to toe in '90s threads, right down to the faded baseball cap perched crookedly on his head. His eyes were lost in his beer, golden beard untrimmed for weeks, wrinkles etched deep like battle scars. This bloke had seen things, lived them.

Across the table lounged a curvy woman in nothing but a black bra. Long hair, golden highlights catching the dim light, perfectly tousled for the occasion. Behind her stood four transparent tubes, each filled with a different brew, glowing faintly under the bar's ambient lights.

"Give me what he's having!" Bray said with a grin, pointing to the large transparent cup the old man cradled like a holy relic, something that did him more good than any woman ever could.

The man jolted slightly. A stranger referencing his drink? In the slums, that wasn't just small talk, it was code. *I see you. You seem interesting. Let's speak.*

The bartender slid a matching cup beneath the tap, then moved to the second spout, letting the amber liquid trickle slowly into it.

"What'll you have?" Bray asked, glancing back at Jamie, who stood behind him like a silent sentinel.

"I don't drink," Jamie replied flatly.

"You don't?" Bray's voice climbed an octave. "Blimey, you're joking!"

"I'm seventeen," Jamie added, as if that settled it.

The bartender handed Bray his full cup. He took it with a wink so practiced it could've charmed a nun out of her habit. The woman behind the bar smiled back,warm, promising, the kind of look that hinted their conversation might go somewhere… interesting.

"You're missing out, mate," Bray teased, then took a swig. His face twisted instantly, bitter, sour, like he'd just licked a battery.

Jamie's ear twitched toward the aquarium on his right.

"I'll be at the aquarium," he said, already stepping away.

"Break a leg!" Bray called after him, though his attention was already tangled in the drink and the man beside him.

Silence settled for a few beats, but not in Bray's mind. He was waiting, calculating the perfect moment to begin the information mining he'd come here for.

"You new round here, mate?" the old man finally asked, voice rough but laced with that unmistakable British cadence, East End, maybe, or South London, worn down by years and regret.

"Yes, I am!" Bray replied, perking up. Rare to have your mark open the door for you.

"Name's Bray. Yours?"

"Rascal," the man croaked, then broke into a wet cough. "Ah, sorry, mate. Just got a bit of beer in your breather!"

"No worries!" Bray said easily.

The old man nodded, brushing it off, not wanting pity.

Bray scanned the nearly empty bar, then leaned in slightly. "Has it always been this empty?"

"Nah, mate," Rascal said, swirling his drink. "Most of the lads saved up their Midbucks for tickets to the Third Reckoning."

He smirked, eyes distant. "Fancy a shag? Sure. But watching noobs get carved up trying to pass the Third Game? Now that's proper entertainment."

The memory flickered behind his eyes, chaos, blood, screams swallowed by the roar of the crowd. Proof, if any were needed, of how Midworld twisted folk into something unrecognizable.

"Do yourself a favour, kid," he added, voice dropping, serious now. "Don't you go signing up for any of those games."

Bray opened his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to reassure but Rascal cut him off, sharp as a switchblade.

"Seen it all before. I came to this very bar years back, hunting for intel. Cost me my whole team." His gaze fell to the bar top. "We watched the Third Game, thought we had it figured. Didn't know they change it every time. Made one mistake… and they died."

"They change it?" Bray's eyes widened. "Then watching it's useless!"

"Exactly," Rascal muttered. "Back to square one."

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," Bray said, voice low but firm. "But no matter what, it's ten games. And we're finishing all of them."

Rascal looked up, surprised. There was fire in the boy's words, not bravado, but resolve. Against all odds, this kid wasn't backing down.

"This lad… he's not broken. Not yet. And bugger me if I don't feel like believing in him." He pondered.

"I'll be rooting for you," Rascal said, a flicker of warmth returning to his voice.

"I won't disappoint you, sir!" Bray declared and snapped off a crisp military salute.

The old man froze. Then his eyes softened. He knew. Knew the weight behind that gesture. Knew the life it came from.

Slowly, deliberately, Rascal raised his own trembling hand in return.

"Alright, soldier," he said, voice thick with pride and memory. "Carry on."

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