Chapter 13

Rarely was the Red Light District free of its usual clamor. Hungover people writhed on the ground, while newcomers stared with bloodshot eyes at the slot machine screens, oblivious to the world around them.

Ye Shu was absent, and so was anyone at the bar. Horne’s pure black work uniform clung to him, impeccably neat without a single wrinkle. He glanced indifferently at the hall’s current scene and strode straight into the corner.

He had no habit of checking public information on the terminal, and at that moment, a city-wide message lay unread inside.

Rounding the corner revealed a spacious waiting area. The reddish-brown walls resembled splashes of blood, and a graffiti-style poster on the wall bore a single sentence: Dream of the sleepers, prison of the awake.

He arrived late; by then, dozens of people—thirty or forty by his estimate—were already there, making it probably the liveliest spot in the Red Light District right now.

Last night’s all-night thunderstorm had plunged the waiting area’s air into a filthy, muddy haze, clinging to his back in the form of sticky sweat.

He had barely taken two steps when a voice called “Brother,” and the expected figure pounced toward him.

Horne gave her a slight nod, offering no further acknowledgment.

Ains gazed at his face and thought: What a cold person.

A staff member who recognized Horne from before hurried over. “Please have a seat anywhere, sir. Everyone will enter the holographic game room together at ten.”

Horne’s gaze swept across the waiting area. The crowd was large and motley—men, women, even some teenagers and elderly folks. He quickly withdrew his eyes and nodded. “Is this the player count for the game?”

The staff member explained, “Not certain, Mr. Horne. Everyone starts in the same holographic game room, but once inside the game, the system randomly assigns which players enter the same instance and how many per game. You might end up in a three-player game, or one instance could include everyone here.”

Horne paused. “So even if we registered together, we might get separated?”

The staff member replied, “Yes, for groups of two or more. Groups of one or two usually stay together—the game doesn’t allow teams larger than two.”

“Oh, thanks.” Horne exhaled in relief, but as he turned, he noticed that after the staff member’s words, everyone in the waiting room had stopped talking and turned to stare at him, all eyes focused intently.

Horne froze in place, unsure what was happening. The once-noisy waiting area had fallen deathly silent.

Until someone asked, “You’re Horne?”

Horne frowned but didn’t respond. He didn’t think he was famous, nor did he recognize anyone.

That person immediately stood and took a couple steps forward, trying to approach, voice trembling with excitement—or perhaps fear. “You’re the one they’re hunting?” As he spoke, several others slowly rose, staring fixedly at him.

Horne pulled Ains behind him, standing ramrod straight. Puzzled, he asked, “What?”

“You’re the one the Tower is looking for?” another pressed, quickening pace toward Horne, even lunging to grab him—only for Horne to sidestep, leaving them grasping air.

Such proximity to strangers made Horne’s stomach turn.

“Go turn yourself in at the Tower!” someone shouted impatiently. “Don’t drag all of Loch City down with you.”

Horne’s first thought was that his movements last night had been exposed—the Tower District’s aliens had identified him as the intruder. But what did “drag down” mean?

“If you don’t go, we’ll have to kill you here.”

“I agree. Better to eliminate the threat—kill one to save many innocents.”

Their whispers and disgust surged toward Horne. From some hushed conversations, he caught the words “terminal message.”

Horne stepped back, swiftly opening his terminal. A never-before-seen message flashed before his eyes.

Sent right around when he’d gone to sleep that morning.

Tower District city-wide broadcast.

Tower Kill Order.

[Target: Horne]

[Gender: Male]

[Age: Unknown]

[Photo]

[Report sightings to Tower immediately. High reward for live capture. Failure to report is aiding and abetting; Tower will hunt abettors.]

[Target may surrender at Tower for judgment.]

[Note: If no information on this individual and target does not appear at Tower, Tower will commence random hunts of Loch City humans in 48 hours until target surfaces.]

[Time Remaining: 44 hours]

Seeing the message, Horne held his breath. But when he saw the attached photo, his heart skipped a beat, color draining from his face.

That photo was his own face—not the mask Hels had given him.

If so, the Tower wasn’t after last night’s infiltrator, but himself from earlier, when he’d escaped the Tower District without a mask.

Horne clenched his fists, staring at the terminal, silent.

“Quick, grab him! Don’t let him run!”

Someone yelled, and the crowd surged forward. Horne retreated another step, with Ains clutching his clothes tightly from behind.

“Who’s got the strength? Grab him and drag him to the Tower!”

“His face doesn’t match the Kill Order photo. He swapped masks?”

If the Tower had tracked him already, infiltrating again would be even harder. Aliens could scan under masks, leaving him fully exposed. But when he’d first met Hels, hadn’t he said not wearing a mask long-term caused serious issues, potentially lethal? Why had this Kill Order warrant come instead?

Doesn’t add up. Simply going maskless wouldn’t trigger a city-wide hunt. It might still tie to last night’s infiltration, but who could’ve known it was him? He’d worn the mask, and the Kill Order photo showed his original face.

Worst of all, they were forcing him out by randomly hunting humans?

“Screw it, I’ll do it!” Finally, someone charged.

As that person moved, others stood and closed in, encircling Horne. Some in the waiting area stayed seated, watching the sudden chaos.

Horne’s sleeve knife flicked out instantly, eyes locking on the frontrunner, defensive stance ready.

Killing now would confirm he was the real Horne from the photo.

Stay passive, get dragged to the Tower—likely a death sentence.

Most importantly… Horne’s brow furrowed as he shielded the person behind him.

He’d promised Ains he’d play the game with her.

The crowd closed in, claws out.

Bang!

A gunshot.

Just as the leader nearly touched Horne and his knife was bared, several security guards burst in, firing shots.

The crowd rippled in agitation.

Horne retracted his knife in a flash, sidestepping the lunge. The attacker lost balance and fell.

Security wedged between the crowd and Horne.

The staff member rushed over, shouting, “Calm down! Everyone, calm down! This is Mr. Horne, but he’s not the one on the Kill Order.” He pushed through to Horne’s side.

The crowd still pressed forward, only to be held back by security in the chaos.

The staff member raised his voice further to restore order: “Rest assured, we’ve registered and vetted every player. This Mr. Horne shares only a name with the Kill Order target. Trust the Red Light District’s investigation!”

At that moment, a lazy voice drifted from the back of the crowd—familiar.

“I’ve seen this guy before. A few days ago, when the aliens came to the Red Light District hunting that Horne, they targeted him too. They even scanned him specially. Not the same guy—just same name.”

Looking toward the voice: the wide-brim hat man, lounging in a waiting area chair, nonchalant. Nearby sat a woman in red, both their gazes fixed on him.

Few remained calmly seated; most had stood to join or fled to the game room entrance.

A boy sat quietly in a spot out of Horne’s view, watching it all.

Hearing this, Horne racked his memory for that day, but it was hazy—he’d lost control, and who exactly had been there was foggy now. All he clearly recalled was an embrace and a few murmured words.

Security shoved the crowd back, bellowing, “Back off!”

The staff member continued loudly: “Yes, the Red Light District won’t obstruct Tower operations. We hope Loch City’s people avoid this needless disaster too. But we verified the Kill Order the moment it dropped this morning.”

“Now, please disperse and wait quietly for the game. No trouble, or I’ll blacklist you. If anyone doubts our investigation, contact manager Miss Ye. If suspicions persist, we’ll have to call Mr. Hels—but I trust no one wants that.”

At Hels’s name, the human wall cracked, the gap widening rapidly until it collapsed.

The crowd went silent for seconds. The front row suddenly stepped back, one muttering disinterestedly, “Oh, guess I got it wrong,” before returning to their seat. The rest ebbed away like a tide, the air around Horne finally breathing again.

In moments, the malice dissipated.

The staff member turned to Horne, professional as ever. “Sorry, sir. Please take a seat and wait.”

Horne’s gaze was icy as he scanned the room, then led Ains to a corner seat. Some glanced over, suspicion lingering in their eyes, but most bought the explanation—wrong guy—and lost interest.

Someone grumbled, “Hope by the time we exit the game, this Horne’s been caught. I don’t wanna die over this crap.”

No sooner had he sat than the wide-brim hat man ahead turned. “Hey, meet again.”

Horne looked up, nodded curtly, silent. His mind wasn’t on small talk.

He was calculating time.

44 hours—and no clue how long the game would last.

Aliens demanding he come to the Tower, or random human hunts.

Willing to sacrifice innocents to force him there. That’s the aliens.

Horne’s eyes drifted shut, thoughts tangling wildly. His hand rested on his leg, squeezing slightly—only then noticing his hands trembling.

“One hundred years, and this is only the aliens’ second Kill Order, right?” Han Ya sat facing Horne, but his head tilted elsewhere. Next to him sat a woman in a striking dark red trench coat.

She murmured softly, “Mm.”

Option one: Don’t show, survive, hide.

Option two: Go to Tower, unknown, suicide.

Listing them in his mind, Horne realized in the next second he had only one choice.

He couldn’t pick one.

What did they want with him? Besides his possible cryo pod in the Tower, he couldn’t think of any connection.

Truth was, he wasn’t afraid of alien turf. He feared the timeline.

44 hours—enough?