Chapter 30: Date? (1)
As soon as the next day, Lanz was already on his way to the biggest mall Velmordop can offer.
He leaned his forehead against the rattling train window, watching Velmordop’s crowded blocks slip past like a glitchy flipbook of everything he wasn’t quite good enough to buy into.
The skyline kept shifting from cracked concrete to polished glass in the blink of an eye, but the reflection looking back at him stayed the same, tired f*cking eyes, hair that needed a real trim months ago, and a grin that kept twitching at the edges every time he remembered what he’d stuffed in his hoodie pocket.
He patted that inside pocket again just to feel the stiff edge of the payout chit press against his stomach, like it might magically melt away if he didn’t keep checking it was real. He’d actually considered stashing it in his sock, a stupid move, he’d admit, but there were lines even he wouldn’t cross for paranoia’s sake.
His nose bumped the glass when the train hit a bend and his reflection squished into a warped, lopsided smirk that made him chuckle under his breath.
In his head, the new and improved ’Zero Drip 2.0’ list.
A helmet, black of course, but without the giant crack that made him look like he’d survived a bicycle crash instead of a dungeon raid.
Gloves, definitely black, no crusty holes this time.
Boots, black too, solid enough that he wouldn’t squeak every time he tried to sneak.
Clothes? All black, obviously. And hell, even boxers should match — he figured if you’re gonna go for drip, you might as well make it consistent top to bottom, because one accidental rip mid-dungeon is all it takes to turn an urban legend into an urban joke.
He caught himself almost adding a cape to the mental cart, then immediately shook his head with a soft snort that fogged the glass. "Nah, you ain’t catching me doing a superhero ass cosplay," he muttered to his own reflection. "I already look dumb enough playing zero-to-hero. So a cape is out of the team."
It didn’t even matter how many rooftop memes he’d scrolled through of high-rank hunters with fancy cloaks fluttering behind them — he knew he’d look like a broom handle wrapped in old laundry.