Dungeon Exploiter

The car came at nine exactly. Long, black, quiet. The same one from the barricade.

I brought the hockey stick. The driver looked at it, then at me, and decided not to have an opinion.

Behind us, half a block back, a much worse car followed — Rob's, with everyone in it. They'd refused to let me go alone, and they'd refused to wait at home.

So we compromised. They'd wait at a diner across the street from wherever I ended up. That's the only kind of backup I've ever had.

Where I ended up was a gate in the hills with no sign on it.

THE CLUB — PRIVATE DUNGEON.

Members and guests only. Not listed on any public registry.

A private dungeon. I hadn't known those existed. I suspect that's the point of them.

Inside, it looked like a hunting lodge built on top of a cave system. Stone halls with soft lighting. Leather chairs. A whole wall of mounted monster heads, the kind of monsters I'd only ever seen on casualty reports.

Men in expensive raid gear stood around holding drinks. Their gear didn't have a scratch on it. Somewhere deeper in the tunnels, something roared, and not one of them flinched.

The CEO was waiting with two glasses of water.

"Jon," he said. "Walk with me. We do our best talking under pressure."

Nobody was joking anymore. Around this man, nobody ever is.

* * *

We walked into the tunnels. He strolled like a man walking through his own house. Executives followed us with rifles that cost more than buildings, and after ten minutes, something with four horns came around the bend, screaming.

The men shot it. They took photos with it. A worker dragged it away on a cart.

None of them had read it first. I had. My quiet screen — the real one — had told me everything.

CHIMERA (STOCKED). Threat: NONE.

Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

Sedated. Claws capped. Fed at 6 AM and 4 PM. Released when guests arrive.

Let me translate that. The monster was farm-raised. Drugged. Fed on a schedule. Released like a golf ball being put on a tee. Every trophy head on that wall had been delivered like a pizza, and every man under those heads had a story about the day he almost died getting it.

The CEO watched me read it. He'd brought me here so I would read it.

"You see it," he said. "You always see it. That's what I want, Jon. Not your clears. Your eyes."

"You hunt drugged animals."

"I don't hunt at all." He handed me the second glass of water. "I let other men believe they hunt. Belief is the product. It's the only product anyone has ever sold."

Then he made his offer, walking, in the dark of a tunnel he owned.

A whole new division, built around me. Rank S, assigned — no ladder, no grinding, straight to the top. My job would be exactly what I already do: find the cracks in the system. The only difference was who I'd hand them to when I found them.

"And the greeter," I said. "Its job is under review."

"The review board meets Thursday." He said it like he was reading a weather report. "Reviews are subjective. Consider that one settled — call it good faith. Now you know what I want in return."

Then his phone buzzed. His personal one, from an inside pocket.

He looked at the screen, excused himself, and stepped away to take the call. And here's the thing I will never forget: he stood up straighter to answer it.

Alone, in a tunnel he owned, in a club he owned, with nobody watching except me — the most powerful man I have ever met straightened his back for whoever was on that phone.

So there's someone above him. Someone who makes the CEO stand at attention in an empty room.

He came back two minutes later with his tie a little tighter, and the meeting was over. That phone call was the most useful thing he showed me all day, and he doesn't know he showed me.

* * *

"No," I said, at the gate. "But I'll take the good faith."

"Everyone takes the good faith." He got into his car. The window came down exactly one inch. "You'll sign on the third offer, Jon. This was the first. The second one costs you more."

The car pulled away. Across the road, the diner window was full of my entire life pressed against the glass — Joe, Rob, Tim, and a goblin wearing a hat so nobody would ask questions. They'd been holding the same menus for two hours.

The paperwork was waiting when I got home.

REVIEW CLOSED. The greeter keeps its job.

Reason: MegaCorp asked for it. The favor is on record. It can be called back at any time.

So the greeter was safe. But it wasn't free.

The CEO had done me a favor, and he'd written it down, and someday he was going to ask for something back. That's how favors work with men like him. It's not a gift. It's a hook with a long line on it.

And under it, the other page. The one that comes by courier now. My file, one line longer than last time.

ASSETS: 1 (goblin — registered).

DEBTS: 1 (favor — MegaCorp. Can be called back.)

"What did it cost?" Liya asked, from the top of the fridge.

"Nothing yet."

"That's the expensive kind," she said. And for once, I didn't have an argument.

The greeter was at the door when I came down in the morning. It had set up a podium next to the mailboxes. Nobody had asked it to. It waved at me the whole way down the steps.

Its tip jar reads $0.00. I plan to keep it that way until the day I've paid off the man who thinks he bought it.