The Unsafe Safehouse

The Phantom Thief was an event character born out of Lupin's particular brand of madness. And as an event character, her performance was, of course, nothing special. The shining example of that shabbiness was a sealed aura slot.

In the world of Elysium, aura was the line that split ordinary people from the gifted—the same old standard that showed up in every game and every story. It started with handling one particular weapon better than anyone else, and if you grew far enough, you swung a sword-aura and cleaved a mountain in two. That sort of thing.

Lupin, however, was a loser with no aura at all. She had hauled relic weapons out of Abandoned Chests by the dozen and never once used a single one properly. Hand one to a collector and the travel funds came in fat. Swing it herself, and it snapped faster than a sword bought for pocket change. Even Lupin, hopeless at math, finished the arithmetic in three seconds. Use it yourself: a total loss. Sell it: wallet stuffed. Always the latter. The former was pure damage.

If becoming the strongest in the world had been her dream, she might have flown into a rage and marched off on some warrior's pilgrimage. Unfortunately, she was the sort of person who ate chests in place of meals. For three years she lived without a single complaint, milking the Dimensional Wanderer's one real talent—trap nullification—for everything it was worth.

"Well, look who it is. Vatslava. How long's it been!"

She had avoided them because they were a hassle, not because she was afraid. If someone laid a hand on her body out of nowhere, Lupin did not let it go—and if the someone was a bad guy, she went fully unhinged. For her, first and later were a hundred and eighty degrees apart. The instant you touched her first, you had violated the Geneva something-or-other. And she was already on day ten without a treasure chest. Her patience wasn't at zero. It was in the red.

"W-we have business with the boss."

Still, she was supposed to be infiltrating. For Lupin, that meant a genuinely soft warning came first. In her head she was already working out how to carve this bastard up, but fortunately there was no knife in her hand.

"Look at that venom. We're both here to make money, aren't we? What's the difference between you and me, huh?"

If a small fry understood words, he wouldn't be a small fry. Talking isn't going to work on you.

"Rookie. You'd better start practicing how to bow. This isn't the kind of place you can take light—"

Temple. Solar ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠plexus. Nape. Her hand stabbed and chopped the vital points at a speed the eye couldn't follow. Bone fissured, clotted vessels burst, and the vertebrae of his neck shifted a few degrees out of line. The executive dropped where he stood, out cold.

"If you don't want to look suspicious, walk like a normal person."

She hadn't killed him, though. For all she knew, this mohawk was one of the dangerous ones Vatslava had mentioned.

"Otherwise, everybody dies."

Figures. Going up against the real ones, her power did feel a little short. She could almost feel the absence of aura, a hollow where it ought to be. From here on she might have to go sniffing through the safes of bad people, and if she kept on like this, it was going to start getting in the way of the job. A strange irritation scraped at her nerves. A trash mob that doesn't even drop in one hit. Yeah. That pissed her off. A lot.

Not that she was worried about running into someone strong and suddenly dying. Lupin's survival batting average had always been respectable. Pinned under a stone trap and one breath from being smashed flat as a stuffed pancake, she had held out for a full hour on raw strength, and the trap-nullification talent had bloomed. A poison arrow from a trap had grazed her once, but she had lived on poison resistance—thanks to having already ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠foamed at the mouth from eating a poisonous mushroom. So Lupin was confident when it came to staying alive. Meet the conditions, and the aura slot would probably open someday too. If she didn't have a slot at all, that would be one thing. But it was sealed, wasn't it? Seals existed to be undone.

Hearing the part about killing everyone had startled Vatslava half out of her skin. She recovered quickly enough to glance around and smooth her expression back into place. Her face settled. Her heart did not. While Lupin propped the executive on the sofa and arranged his posture, Vatslava was busy sweeping the room.

What if they took her for Lupin's accomplice? What if the boss had already noticed and laid everything in wait? What if a bullet suddenly buried itself in the back of her head? Every look was suspect. Every ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠conversation made her stomach turn. If she were walking through a room with thorns drifting in the air all around her, it would feel exactly like this. Poke, poke, poke. Her face, her back, the nape of her neck—everything kept stinging.

Lupin clicked her tongue at the woman pacing and fretting in front of her.

"Ease up on the theatrics."

Somewhere along the way, a cocktail had been closed into the unconscious executive's hand. His posture tilted, and the drink crept in a slow spill across the floor, but Lupin paid it no mind at all. She shot a thumbs-up. Perfect, that said. Vatslava, meanwhile, stamped her feet in distress. That executive was not the sort to sit around chewing on his loneliness. He was the kind of man who used his subordinates' shoulders as parallel bars and did his strength training on them.

"I-if you leave him like that... someone's bound to find the body..."

"Don't worry about it. Doesn't matter if we're caught. More importantly, let's have a drink before we head to the boss's room. Nothing beats alcohol for working up courage."

Lupin threw back the camouflage cocktail in a single swallow.

Kaaah.

The exclamation was gorgeous. Her face crumpled immediately after. She was on day ten of quitting chests, after all. Her taste buds had gone to rot, and all that came through was a wall of bitter.

"Ugh. Way too bitter. What Rava used to make was so much better."

Vatslava, unable to keep up with the conversation, blanked for a moment. In that gap, Lupin was already walking on ahead.

...Did she just compliment me?

None of this made sense, but Lupin had gone out of her way to praise her, and failing to react felt wrong. Vatslava drained the cocktail in her hand in a hurry. The buzz climbed fast.

"R-right? I mean, I've been at it six months. I was pretty good at matching what customers wanted..."

"I'll give you that. The cocktail from the first day might've been the best one."

"What? Y-yes!"

Only then, buried until now beneath the fear, did seven days of acquaintance come back to her.

Vatslava had forgotten one important thing. Her conscience. She'd still had it back when she was dragged by force into the trafficking ring. Years had worn it down until she could no longer even tell it was there—that precious conscience.

Lupin isn't like the boss...

Milwi and Lupin. The two of them had something in common: both were terrifying, coercive people who held Vatslava's life in a fist and shook it. But the difference was blindingly clear. Milwi had dropped her into a trap, taken something that belonged to a person she loved as a hostage, and forced her into a job with the trafficking ring. Then came the violence, the brainwashing, the slow remaking of her into a criminal.

And Lupin? If Vatslava's conscience had still been intact—if she had never sold Lupin to the trafficking ring—there would have been no reason for the girl to become a monster. Vatslava was the one who had made her that way.

I'll give you that. The cocktail from the first day might've been the best one.

She could have remained a foolish customer who whined a little too much. No different from any other guest who drank Vatslava's cocktails and set down the weariness of the day. The moment Lupin realized she had been betrayed, how she must have shaken, sick with rage. Someone who would have been sweet if only left alone, turned into a monster blind with revenge.

What did I do?

"...I'm sorry."

"Huh? Out of nowhere?"

Knock, knock. Lupin tipped her head and rapped on the boss's door. Through the little window she had already seen the treasure chest, and just now not a single word was making it into her ears.

"Anybody hooome~?"

"Come in!"

Vatslava, disguised as a senior, was supposed to go in first. To Lupin, that kind of order had already stopped mattering. Enter. Confirm. Open. Past the murderous stares of the bald brothers flanking the door, she darted to the sofa and sat down across from Milwi.

"Well, well. Vatslava. You've brought me a real usable piece."

"Huh. Me?"

The boss's hand shot out and seized Lupin's cheek. Lupin, who had been about to ask whether she could open the treasure chest, turned into a goldfish.

"Where'd you find a girl like this? You didn't skim one we were saving to sell, did you?"

Vatslava never got the chance to answer. Lupin's fist went in without a moment's hesitation and launched the boss's face. She reeled back, then pitched forward with a crack. Her head hit the table, and red blood poured from her nose in a steady line.

"Oops. That was reflex."

But Vatslava wasn't startled anymore either. They say a dog loitering at a village school for three years learns to recite poetry. Two days had been plenty for Vatslava. The boss touches Lupin's face. Lupin does not endure it. Crash—exactly as expected. She had locked the blast door ahead of time, and now she set her back over the little window, figuring a door that solid would hold for a few minutes even if the Vladimir brothers threw their bodies at it.

Lupin stared at her, baffled.

"What are you doing over there?"

"Hurry. Do what you came to do."

"Do what?"

"The treasure chest!"

Lupin was a person who kept her promises. Vatslava had found the treasure chest, just as she'd said she would. Naturally, Lupin had meant to follow through on cutting her loose. Ask to be ignored if something went wrong, and then suddenly this burst of team spirit?

"Stay like that and they're going to get suspicious."

"It doesn't matter, just hurry!"

Lupin shook her head. She took considerable pride in keeping her word. A promise had to be kept.

CRACK!

The boss's ashtray, flung from Lupin's hand, struck Vatslava square in the forehead.

"W... why...?"

She went down hard, and the noise outside flared at once.

"Vatslava? What's going on in there?"

"Mom! Mom?!"

And with that, she had kept her promise to Vatslava, too—the one about pretending not to know her. All that remained was happy treasure-chest time. Boom. Boom. Boom. The blast door thundered, but the noise folded neatly into the cheerful music already playing in Lupin's head. Dopamine boiled up through her, hotter by the second. Hey, mister outside the window. Harder. Louder. Give me the beat! Whoa, the rhythm's slipping.

In that state she flung the chest open, and the instant the lid gave, Lupin shrieked.

"Finalllly!"

It was the splendid homecoming of the status window she had been sure ran away from home three years ago.