Chapter 4: Cheap and Worth It
If someone stopped, he’d talk.
If they didn’t, he’d wait.
The afternoon heat began to crawl across Frank’s shoulders when a group of four broke from the steady foot traffic and drifted closer. Not slow, as if they were curious. Not fast, as if they were confident. That in-between pace—half pull, half drag.
D-Ranks. Scuffed armor, half-repaired gauntlets, and a mismatched pair of boots on one of them. Their weapons were solid but worn—steel swung too many times without a proper whetstone. The leader stood out by how little he blinked. Late thirties, maybe. Short hair, red with dust, and eyes that scanned Frank as if searching for a catch.
He stopped a few feet from the table.
"You selling those?" he asked, jerking his chin toward the vials.
Frank didn’t move. "That’s the idea."
The man squinted at the sign, then at the crate.
"Thirty credits?" he said, his tone sharp with doubt. "What’s the catch?"
"No catch," Frank replied. "They’re recovery potions, alchemy-brewed. Five tokens a pop on the other side. I’ve got the paperwork, but I figure you don’t care."
The others were watching now. One leaned in a little. Another crossed her arms. A third kept a casual hand near his hip—not threatening, just careful.