How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)-Chapter 52: How to Decode a Hoard of Forbidden Things (2)

Before Antoril, before seals and flute players with black eyes, I learned to walk routes like this — where risk lives behind doors no one knocks on. I didn’t wear a cloak or carry a weapon. I wore an expensive watch and polished shoes.

I carried folders, memos, and a smile that opened more safes than any key. I worked in buildings with more glass than morals, surrounded by men who knew how to use the word "compliance" to justify anything — including the slow destruction of other people’s lives.

I was the middleman.

Modern smuggling, dressed like an executive.

Confidential information. Competitor dossiers. Transfers disguised as consulting. Sometimes people — people who wanted to disappear, or needed to show up under a different name. I didn’t deal in weapons. I dealt in data. In logistics. In small lies dressed up as clean appearances.

And never for money. The money came, of course. But the real reason was something else. Debts. Favors. Agreements no one dared to write down, but everyone honored — because they knew the cost of breaking silence.

And in the alleys of big cities — because yes, modern cities still have alleys, even when they call themselves "business districts" — the logic was always the same: the darker the path, the more it wants to hide.

But if it’s too dark... it’s an ambush.

I learned to feel that in the concrete, in the glass, in the distance between steps. Meeting spots were never completely silent. Absolute silence is ambush territory. For a deal to happen, there needs to be echo. A footstep. A creak. A scent. Something to prove that people exist — and that those people are breathing with fear.

That’s how you survive.

And it’s what saved me more times than I like to admit.

Not my size. Not my voice.

But instinct.

The instinct to sniff out a rotten path that hasn’t rotted enough yet to be truly dangerous.

And that same instinct now told me that Antoril — however fantastical — still followed similar rules.

Rotten people, it seemed, were the same in every world.

Thalia was walking beside me more alert now. She wasn’t complaining about the lack of signs anymore. She was starting to understand that not every safe path comes with a map.

We passed by a half-open door. A dog watched us from the gap. It didn’t bark.

Good sign.

"Have you done this before?" she asked.

"Walked?"

"This. Chosen an alley by the ’smell’."

"Yes. Many times."

She didn’t answer. But her eyes glimmered slightly. Not out of admiration. Out of calculation. She was updating whatever mental file she kept on me.

Two more corners and the air changed again.

Now it came damp, with a whisper underneath. Not a voice. Just wood creaking. Tiles groaning on their own. And something down below... was vibrating. Like we were walking across the ribs of some ancient beast that still dreamed.

This was it.

I knew before I saw it. Like someone smelling rust before seeing blood.

The street became a tunnel. The tunnel became a scar. And the city vanished behind us.

The alley announced itself from a distance. First with deeper shadows. Then with the smell — a mix of wet stone, old moss, and soot that came from no fire.

We passed a group of people huddled beneath blankets. A woman with empty eyes asked for water, not coins. A boy was playing with bone fragments on the ground, like he was trying to solve a macabre puzzle.

"You sure this is the place?" Thalia whispered.

"The mural of the circular serpent. He said it was the marker."

And there it was.

At the end of the alley, wedged between two crumbling buildings like feuding siblings, a stone wall painted with a serpent devouring its own tail — the paint faded, but still too alive to have been forgotten. Someone had been there recently. There were footprints in the muck. Narrow steps. No heels.

The wind blew low. And for the first time that night, I felt cold in my bones.

It wasn’t cold wind.

It was the kind of chill that lives in instinct.

"You think she’s here?" Thalia asked, her voice nearly cracking.

"If she is, she already knows we’ve arrived."

"How?"

"Because we arrived."

Silence.

She took a deep breath. Then stepped forward, two paces, firm but restrained. Her eyes scanned every corner like she was expecting someone — or something — to leap from the darkness with poetry and blood.

I stayed a step behind. Watching everything.

"If this is a trap, are you ready?"

"No. But no one solves mysteries with perfect safety."

"Now there’s something I really hate admitting I agree with."

The alley narrowed as we moved. The ground dipped slightly, like we were walking inside some forgotten scar of the city. The buildings around us whispered with creaking wood, and the sky was too dark to see a single star.

Slowly, the city’s voices faded.

As if Antoril, here, no longer breathed.

And that’s when she stopped.

"There," she whispered.

I followed her gaze.

A hooded figure, seated in the corner of the alley. It didn’t move. Didn’t seem to be asleep. It just sat there, like it had been born in that exact position.

"I bet it’s her," Thalia murmured.

"Safe bet or stylish one?"

"Stylish. No guarantee."

The figure didn’t react. Not to our presence. Not to the light. Not to the wind.

But something in me knew.

The mark was here.

And whatever that woman was — she wasn’t just a street performer.

The goal was simple: approach, ask questions, leave with more answers than bruises.

But nothing about that figure suggested "simple."

The woman was too still.

No visible breathing. No shifting of weight. No human ticks.

She didn’t look like she was waiting — she looked like she was awaiting.

And that’s a very different thing.

Thalia stepped forward, but I raised my hand — slowly.

Palm open.

Signal to wait.

"Something wrong?" she whispered.

"Everything."

I looked around.

The alley seemed deeper now. As if it had grown beneath the city. The walls on either side were too quiet — no bats, no cats, no sound. The wind didn’t touch the ground. Even the smell had changed. Sweeter. Floral.

Perfume?

Or incense?

Either meant trouble in places like this.

"This could be a trap," I murmured.

"You always say that."

"And I’m still alive. Coincidence?"

She rolled her eyes, but stayed put.

I crouched and touched my fingers to the ground. Thin sludge — but fresh. Footprints over it, light, gliding — like someone moving quickly but quietly. At least three different kinds. One large. Two medium. All came from outside, but only one went back.

"How many were here?" Thalia asked.

"Three. Only one left. The others... well, maybe they’re lower than us now."

She frowned.

"Buried?"

"Or hidden. There’s more than one kind of silence in the world, Thalia. And this one... sounds like the kind that carries things in the walls."

I approached with caution. Not directly toward the woman — but toward the setting. Doors. Cracks. Escape lines. Things a man has to read before trusting his own feet.

It reminded me of a situation from a past life.

I had gone to meet a client. They said he was just a diplomat in discreet exile.

He was an interrogator.

And the bar where he set meetings was a theater of shadows.

There, the entrance was always visible — but the exit never in the same place. And that night, a woman sitting in the corner lured me in with a nearly identical gesture. She didn’t look. Didn’t speak. Just waited.

The difference? She was armed to the teeth.

And had been paid to delay my escape.

Almost succeeded.

Since then, I developed a habit: no one stays still for that long without a purpose.

And this woman?

She was the center of a purpose that hadn’t shown its teeth yet.

| ANALYSIS PROFILE: DANTE – URBAN INSTINCT MODE |

| PSYCHOLOGICAL ATTRIBUTES |

Instinct: Extremely Sharp (trained to detect abnormal silence, altered terrain, pre-ambush cues)

Composure: High – remains analytical under magical or social pressure

Memory: Layered recall of prior incidents, used for real-time decision-making

Paranoia Index: Functional – every silence is a story

| TACTICS & HABITS |

► Echo Detection Protocol [Passive]

→ Evaluates ambient sound. Silence below expected levels = threat escalation. Looks for ambient clues: footsteps, creaking, breathing.

► Environmental Mapping [Active – On Arrival]

→ Rapid terrain scan. Identifies: blind corners, escape paths, footprint types, scent variations. Flags traps and routes subconsciously.

► Threat Archetype Recall [Triggered by Behavior Pattern]

→ When target mimics a known past event (e.g., "too still"), Dante’s subconscious triggers historical overlay — creating behavioral alarms.

► Psychological Field Tuning [Passive – Social Reading]

→ Observes companions for microreactions. Uses as mirror to confirm ambient tension or possible magical influence.

| LIMITATIONS |

→ High-detail paranoia may delay decisive action

→ Hyperfocus on setting may miss emotional or symbolic cues

→ Lacks formal magical defense — depends on terrain and inference

"Any ideas?" Thalia asked, a bit more tense now.

"Plenty."

"Any useful ones?"

"All of them would be, if I knew whether this is an invitation or a warning."

She huffed. Crossed her arms. But waited.

Because despite everything, she knew my suspicion had saved more lives than empathy ever could.

I weighed the options. Speak first? Toss a loose line, see if she reacts?

Maybe.

Or test the alley.

Throw something small. Simulate movement. See if any patterns react.

Or...

"You got something small and metal on you?" I asked.

"Like what?"

"A coin. A brooch. A button."

She pulled a hair clip from her pocket.

"This work?"

I took it. Examined it. Weighed it in my hand. Then tossed it toward the far end of the alley — right behind the figure.