Chapter 226 | Suspicious Individuals
"Aurora and I were involved. It’s over now. But we still talk and share information. Which is how she knew about you, and which is how I know she met with you."
Another pause.
"I like you, Dexter. I’ve made that pretty clear. I’m not going to pretend I don’t. But I also respect that you have three wives and that your situation is complicated. I’m not trying to insert myself into your household."
Her voice softened.
"I just want you to know that if you ever need anything, whether it’s a friend, a contact, a business partner, or... something more. I’m available. In whatever capacity you need me."
Dexter stood on the sidewalk. Even after what she said,he remained silent for a while and then spoke.
"I’ll keep that in mind," he said.
Rachel laughed softly. "That’s all I ask."
"Okay," she said. "I called mainly cause I wasworried when I saw your name along with the file on Harvest Homes. That’s why I called."
"Thank you for being worried," Dexter said. "I’ll talk to you later, yeah?"
"Okay, talk to you later." Rachel paused. "And don’t forget. You promised me we’d go out sometime."
Dexter immediately replied. "I didn’t promise you anything. But if I have time, I’ll let you know."
Rachel seemed to smile happily at that.
"Bye, Dexter."
"Bye."
The call ended.
Dexter pocketed his phone and resumed walking. His mind was still processing the conversation. Rachel was bisexual and had been involved with Aurora.
’She’s truly a temptress.’
He could even hear other people screaming ’pass the remote.’ In his mind.
He shook his head and continued to move. He was halfway down the block when he saw them.
Two figures walked past him, heading in opposite directions towards the bakery.
They were dressed completely in black. Black shirts. Black pants. Black boots. Black hoods pulled up over their heads, obscuring their faces.
Dexter frowned as they passed.
His Enhanced Hearing, always partially active, registered their heartbeats as they walked by and his mana affinity immediately recognized their realms.
Peak Superhuman Realm.
Both of them.
Dexter’s frown deepened. He turned his head slightly, tracking their movement as they continued past him without acknowledgment. They didn’t look at him, glance in his direction, or register his existence. They simply walked, their hoods low, their pace unhurried, their trajectory aimed precisely at the bakery ahead.
’What are two Peak Superhuman Realm cultivators doing in this neighborhood?’
This was not the mid-district. This was not the commercial center. This was the outer ring, where families lived on modest incomes and the most dangerous thing on the street was the occasional stray dog.
Peak Superhuman Realm cultivators did not wander through outer-ring neighborhoods without a reason. They were too valuable. Too well-employed. Too busy taking high-paying dungeon contracts and Association missions to waste time walking through streets where the most exciting event of the day was the bakery opening at dawn.
’But the bakery just started selling Enchanted Meals. Maybe they came to buy.’
The thought was reasonable. His meals had been selling well. The reputation was spreading. Word of mouth in a city like Stargate City traveled fast, especially when the product was genuinely effective. Peak Superhuman Realm cultivators might have heard about the Grade One meals and come to try them.
’That’s probably it. Nothing suspicious. Just customers.’
Dexter smiled at his own paranoia.
’My meals are going viral. Two Peak Superhuman Realm cultivators came to buy my food. That’s nice.’
He was about to continue home when his Enhanced Hearing caught something.
A scream.
Short. Sharp. Cut off almost as soon as it began. Not the scream of a crowd or a performance or a child playing. The scream of a single voice. Female. Young. Coming from the direction of the bakery.
Dexter’s expression changed.
His body moved before his brain finished processing. The decision to act was not conscious. It was reflexive. The particular, instant, full-body response of a man who had spent weeks fighting monsters and assassins and whose nervous system had been rewired to treat sudden sounds as immediate threats.
He flashed toward the bakery.
Not walked. Not jogged. Flashed. Using a suppressed version of Flame Burst Step that was calibrated for short-distance, civilian-adjacent movement. Fast enough to cover two blocks in seconds. Slow enough to avoid creating a sonic boom that would shatter every window on the street.
He reached the bakery in under ten seconds.
The front of the shop was still crowded. Customers milled around the display cases. The staff behind the counter were serving. Everything looked normal. Everything sounded normal. The ambient noise of a busy bakery in the middle of its morning rush.
But Tessa was not behind the counter.
Dexter’s eyes swept the room. Left. Right. Behind the pastry display. Near the ovens. In the hallway.
No Tessa.
The staff at the counter noticed him. They recognized him. He had been here twice before. They knew he was connected to the owner. They paid him no special attention as he moved through the shop with the focused, purposeful stride of a man who knew exactly where he was going.
He entered the narrow hallway. Passed the ovens. Passed the flour-dusted prep stations. Reached the storage room.
Empty.
The thermal shelves were there. His meals were there. But Tessa was not.
Dexter’s hearing expanded. He pushed the range outward, filtering through the layers of ambient sound. The hum of the refrigerators. The click of the ovens. The murmur of customers in the front. The traffic outside.
And beneath all of it, coming from further back. From behind the bakery. From the backyard.
Movement. Bodies. The sounds of physical contact. The particular, dense, heavy sounds of a fight.
Dexter didn’t hesitate.
He burst through the back door.
The backyard of the bakery was a small, enclosed space. A concrete patio. A few empty crates. A dumpster. A clothesline where aprons were hung to dry. Not large. Not designed for combat. The kind of space where a baker stepped out for fresh air between batches.