Shadows Under Curfew
It's not wrong, is it?
These guys were definitely trying to freeload off me.
"You have every reason to think that way."
Yorn nodded as if he understood, propping his wrinkled chin on his hand.
"And that's precisely why my proposed conditions include a two-day timeline."
"What do you mean."
"Even for a standard factory, a full-scale investigation covering every suspicious circumstance and any potential risks—do you think that's easy to wrap up in just two days?"
"That's..."
Thinking about it again, it was damn near impossible.
"I'll pull in personnel from other operations and make it our top priority. How does that sound? Does the scale feel balanced now?"
A counterattack I hadn't seen coming at all.
My head started throbbing.
"If we negotiate the cost differently."
"For gold alone, I can do 20,000. But it'll take about eight weeks. What do you say?"
He spoke as if I couldn't possibly refuse.
And he was right.
Eight weeks? That's after we've already signed the contract and received the first batch of gloves.
Way too late.
I need the first offer, but how do I play this? Just ignore the unease and sign the damn thing.
Yorn had no idea, but the answer was already set.
"Eight weeks. In that case, forget what I just said. Let's call it a day. Thanks for the tea."
In this urgent day-to-day grind, there was no room to wait eight weeks, so I stood up without hesitation.
"Tsk tsk, what a shame. Safe travels."
"Yeah. And next time... it'd be nice if you had some better options. Ones that actually make me want to deal."
Where the hell had this backbone come from all of a sudden?
I lowered my voice like a warning and headed back down the hallway I'd come from.
"The deal fell through."
A black shadow approached Yorn, who was now alone in the room, and spoke.
"No matter what we offer, he won't budge. It's like he's under some kind of restriction."
"I think the same. He didn't even seem conflicted."
Palan had mentioned the weights on the scales himself.
But Yorn knew he hadn't even bothered to measure them.
"What now? Isn't securing the antidote the priority?"
"It is, but act rashly and you'll end up with nothing."
"Understood."
The man bowed at Yorn's decision.
"Cambedia Factory, was it? Look into it. Might give us something to offer in the deal."
"Yes, sir. I'll start the investigation immediately."
The man left upon receiving the order.
Left alone, Yorn carefully rolled up his sleeve.
"Hm."
His right arm was necrotic beyond recognition as human skin.
It was the curse he'd suffered a year ago while exploring ruins.
He hadn't identified its nature, but judging by appearances, it was some kind of disease slowly rotting the skin.
From rare elven aid to every medicine imaginable, nothing had broken the curse.
When he'd nearly given up on life, word arrived about Palan's antidote.
"It's completely halted now, I suppose."
Since taking the antidote, the necrosis had stopped dead.
The relief from pain and fear of death was beyond words.
"Tsk tsk, how amusing."
Yorn flashed a smile pure as a child's and stood.
"Section Chief, to meet the delivery dates, we need to move fast. What's your plan for the contract?"
Two days after meeting Yorn.
Kailan, the chief engineer, asked about the winter gear gloves with a worried tone.
"Sigh, yeah."
In this time crunch, dragging out the contract pointlessly wasn't an option anymore.
Retreating further was impossible.
Tch, it's fishy as hell. But what can I do?
It sucked, but there was nothing I could handle alone.
"Tell them to come sign tomorrow."
"Got it. Soon as the gloves are contracted tomorrow, I'll put out bids for the rest."
"Yeah, let's do that."
Since my personal hang-ups had delayed things,
now we had to accelerate even more.
That kid... just think of her as some employee's family member.
Logically, that was the higher probability anyway—not that it made rationalizing any easier.
Starting today, it's gonna be non-stop overtime for a week.
To clear the stack of papers on my desk, it'd take more than overtime—I'd need a cot on the floor.
But my overtime didn't mean everyone else's.
"Uh... Section Chief, curfew's coming, so I'll head out first."
8 PM.
Already past official quitting time, but in this overtime atmosphere, Bern the captain grabbed his bag and stood.
Quitting? Quitting now?
Not just anyone, but Bern from the clothing division—the busiest part—leaving early was unbelievable.
"You done with the urgent stuff?"
"Well... I haven't finished everything, so I'll come in early tomorrow. I'd love to stay and do more, but curfew."
He looked awkward, but curfew was curfew.
How much trust did he lose with his wife to get a curfew?
He didn't seem like a heavy drinker. Sad story.
"Maybe I should write your wife a letter saying you're swamped. Even after gloves, clothing's got ages left—overtime's mandatory."
"Pardon? Oh, no, it's not that. It's the curfew in my neighborhood. Started two days ago—no going out after 10 PM, so I gotta rush."
"Your neighborhood has a curfew...?"
What the hell did that mean?
Streets are packed at 11 PM with people grabbing drinks.
Hard to wrap my head around.
"Yeah, I live on the city outskirts. Recent kidnappings spiking, so the guard put one in."
"Outskirts? That's a hell of a commute."
"Live above my wife's tavern on the second floor. But thinking of moving to the barracks now. Got a daughter—too uneasy."
"Safer that way, security-wise."
Raising a kid where kidnappings happen ain't easy.
"Watch yourself more than your daughter, Bern. Heard from a guard contact—mostly adult men getting snatched."
Captain Dennis, who'd been listening, chimed in.
"I heard too. What kind of kidnappings are these?"
"Hold up—adult men?"
Common sense rebelled, so I eyed Dennis.
"Yeah, half the confirmed victims are adult males. No clue what for."
"Adult men."
What's the biggest advantage adult men have over women?
Strength.
And strength... is the root of labor.
"Something wrong?"
"Nah. Head home."
"Yes, sir! Good work! Loyalty!"
Bern left first to beat curfew, and the rest of us tackled the backlog like mad.
Finally escaped the office at 10 PM.
Back at barracks, I changed to casuals and slipped out.
Am I seriously doing this for some life of luxury?
Fucking infuriating, but that nagging feeling wouldn't quit.
"Ninth district, please."
I hopped in a carriage, named the destination, and the driver grimaced faintly.
"Sir, ninth district's under curfew—no entry now."
"Drop me at the edge then."
"Ugh, that area's security's been..."
He hesitated.
He's angling for extra coin.
"Double pay—let's roll. Or I grab another ride..."
"Haha! No need. Right away!"
The driver, panicking as I moved to leave, whipped the horses into gear.
"But sir, ninth district this late—what's the rush?"
"Just urgent business. Those kidnappings bad enough for curfew?"
Might as well probe on the way—time's money.
No one knows more gossip than coachmen.
Like taxi drivers back home.
"Lived here 20 years—happens now and then. War on top? Security sucks, so they act up more. Sigh, when's this war end?"
The driver sighed wearily.
"Ninth district that rough? It's still Demvad."
"You must be from way out—guards only care up to seventh. Beyond? Barely patrol. That's why the mess."
For reference, higher districts mean farther from Demvad center; post-seventh is "outskirts," lower middle-class and below.
"Slacking off."
"No one checks if they half-ass it. Curfew? No enforcement. Here we are."
He halted, opened the door.
"The double pay you promised..."
"This enough?"
I slipped a gold coin into his palm.
"Oh! Thank you! Safe night!"
"You too."
Quick goodbye, grabbed my bag, entered ninth district.
"Ughlol, one more round! Tasty spot up ahead."
"Yeah, my treattt~"
Drunken men stumbling streetside, booze reeking.
Curfew long past, yet carefree.
Curfew's a joke anyway— that's why he bailed early?
Smart workaround, but following it is technically normal.
No guards patrolling. Perfect for kidnappers to resume.
Old saying: criminals return to the scene.
Not hunting solo here—time to borrow some muscle.
9th District Guard Post
A neat two-story building amid the bustle.
No hesitation—I pushed open the door to a surprising sight.