/~Contrario~/
Nova City always smelled like burnt copper and pride.
The kind of pride that shimmered off neon lights and leaked out of every polished metal wall and digital billboard. The moment I stepped into the Merc Spot, Nova's elite outpost for ranked hunters, guns-for-hire, and glory-addicts...I felt it. That difference was very large.
Irish Valley was wild, broken, personal.
Nova? This was clinical. Too clean and Cold.
I kept my hood low, hands in my coat, walking a straight line through the mess of mercs crowding the check-in terminal. No one made eye contact yet. No one recognized me yet.
The registration was smooth. One scan. One thumbprint. One click.
[You are now registered for the Nova-Approved Mini Tournament: Entry ID — "STRAYWOLF_01]
I turned to leave.
But fate, or maybe just my usual rotten timing, had other plans.
As I turned the corner near the exit, I shoulder-checked someone a little too hard. My hood slipped, slid off
"damn it"
