The idea was reckless, arrogant and potentially suicidal.
A Tier 1 summoner trying to play kingmaker in a world ruled by gangs, mafias, and families with decades of accumulated power?
That was how people disappeared.
But still...
The thought wouldn’t leave.
He clenched his fist.
"...Not yet."
This wasn’t something he tested on impulse.
If he ever went down that path, it would be with people he trusted completely.
People who wouldn’t sell him out the moment things got dangerous.
Loyal folks that could keep his secret.
West let the thought sink into the back of his mind like a sealed file marked Later.
For now, priorities mattered.
Summon...
Shop...
Research legitimate channels where he could sell ruin materials.
These three were at the top of his priority list right now.
However, he couldn’t do most of them indoors.
The inventory research was already underway, thanks to the internet.
The summoning and shop browsing?
Those needed space, focus and secrecy.
Where would he test the new boons he acquired from the shop? And what if he winded up summoning some gargantuan divine being again? He could do these here.
He needed to find an external secluded spot
...
...
West slept like a rock.
This was the kind of sleep where his soul temporarily clocked out of existence, his face mashed into the pillow like a defeated villain, and his alarm had long since given up on him.
By the time he finally stirred, squinting at the harsh sunlight stabbing through the curtains, the first thing he saw was the time.
10:03 a.m.
"...I’ve failed as a human being," West muttered hoarsely.
He rolled over, burying his face in the pillow again, fully intending to negotiate at least another hour of unconsciousness... when a knock landed against his door.
Knock knock.
"West," his father’s voice came through the wood, "You alive in there?"
West groaned. "Define alive."
The door didn’t open—his dad was polite like that—but the handle rattled slightly as Mark leaned closer. "Auntie Maribel’s here. She cooked. And she brought... a lot."
That sentence alone was enough to jolt West upright.
"...Why didn’t you lead with that?"
He scrambled out of bed, ran a hand through his hair, trying to quell the rebellious spikes and yanked the door open.
Mark stood there already dressed with his shoes on and keys in hand.
"She’s in the living room," Mark said. "And she’s already talking."
West winced. "Oh no."
He shuffled out, still half-asleep, only to be assaulted by a familiar voice the moment he stepped into the living room.
"WEST! Look at you! You’ve gotten thinner—or is it taller? No, thinner. Or maybe both!"
Auntie Maribel spun toward him with a wooden spoon still in hand and her cat perched on her shoulder like an evil familiar judging him silently.
"Auntie," West said, smiling despite himself. "Good morning to you too."
She immediately grabbed his cheeks in both hands and squished them like he was five years old again. "You know, the whole ruins incident is still very fresh... you scared us half to death, young man. Half to death! Do you know how many candles I lit for you? Even the cat prayed."
The cat blinked slowly.
"I don’t think he did," West said. "He looks like he was plotting something."
Maribel waved that off and finally released him. "Sit. Eat. Before it gets cold."
The table was stacked with rice dishes, stews, fried pastries, things that smelled so good West’s stomach immediately betrayed him with a loud growl.
"Oh," Maribel said knowingly. "The ruin diet, hm? Two days of terror and starvation. Sit."
West obeyed without argument.
As he ate, Maribel launched into her usual stream-of-consciousness commentary.
"How’s your father treating you? Still working too much? You know, I told him once that if he worked any harder, he’d turn into a chair. Permanently."
Mark coughed from the side. "That was one time."
"And I was right," Maribel said smugly. Then she leaned closer to West, lowering her voice. "I’m still not happy about it, you know."
West paused mid-bite. "...About what?"
She frowned. "About you giving your glory away to that Mafia boy. Timothy. Good-looking kid, sure, but still. Everyone knows it was you."
West shot her a sharp look.
She immediately sighed. "I know, I know. Don’t say it out loud. We’re keeping our mouths shut. Everyone is. Reporters came knocking yesterday—do you know what they asked me?"
West raised a brow.
"They asked if I saw Timothy personally carry people out on his back," Maribel said. "I told them yes. Twice. Even though I only saw his picture on TV."
West nodded slowly and satisfied. "Good."
She smiled faintly. "We all stuck to the script. No one’s saying a word. We’re grateful, West. Truly."
That softened something in his chest.
Mark wondered what they were whispering about but couldn’t bring himself to pry. He was just glad that there were people who watched over West when he wasn’t home.
After finishing his food and narrowly escaping Maribel trying to pack leftovers into his pockets "for emergencies"—she finally stood to leave.
"If you need anything," she said, adjusting her bag and hoisting the cat. "Anything. You come over. Day or night."
"I will," West said sincerely.
She waved while the cat tail flicked, and soon the door closed behind her.
The apartment felt quieter.
West turned back to his plate, only to notice his father standing there fully dressed with a jacket on.
"...You going somewhere?" West asked.
Mark smiled.
"No," he said. "We are."
West blinked. "We?"
"Yes. We."
"...Why does that sound ominous?"
Mark laughed. "Relax. I already planned it."
West narrowed his eyes. "Planned what?"
"A day out," Mark said. "You and me."
West stared.
"Dad," he said carefully, "are you dying?"
Mark snorted. "No."
"Because this feels like the start of a heartfelt montage."
Mark ruffled his hair. "Get dressed. Pack a small bag."
West’s eyes widened. "A bag?"
"Yes."
"...A bag bag?"
Mark grinned. "You’ll see."
"Oh, it’s that type of outing," West muttered.