Milas learned two things the moment the bar went quiet.
First, silence in a place like this was never a good sign.
Second, when that silence was accompanied by the faint whirring of surveillance drones outside the stained-glass windows, it was already too late.
The mug in his hand had already been cleaned, and that annoyed Milas even more because, couldn't they have come before he had done the dishes?
So when he saw the officer walk into the bar and the owner crossing his arms and smirking at him, he knew his cover was blown.
He sighed. He was pretty sure he controlled his eyes, so that couldn't have been it.
He put the glass on the counter.
Bet that old man is laughing right now since he doesn't have to pay my wage.
Two uniformed officers stood by the counter. Shit.
They were unfamiliar faces—not the usual officers—with shock batons at their hips, wide black glasses hiding most of their faces, with drones idling like birds on their shoulders, but thankfully no guns.
One of them raised their baton and pointed.
"We received a report of an individual with glowing eyes."
Milas raised both hands slowly.
"They do that sometimes when I blink."
So that pig owner reported me. Probably noticed the fake papers.
The officers seemed unfazed.
"Is that so."
"Yes, sir. Medical condition." He looked at them innocently.
The bar owner snorted in the back.
Milas slowly slid one foot backward.
The officer noticed.
"Don't—"
Milas smiled. He didn't wait for the sentence to finish.
He bolted.
The bar exploded into motion.
"Get the mud!"
Milas made a face at the shout.
Mud.
Seems like nobody educated these officers that the polite term was Lower-Class Hybrid Citizen. The legal term was Restricted Bloodline. But it wasn't like anyone ever used another word than mud.
Because glowing eyes meant alien ancestry.
Because alien ancestry meant lower-class birth, and lower-class birth meant you were only supposed to work at the docks, tunnels, mining or disappear quietly into government labor programs.
Not pour drinks in a bar.
Even if it was a bar on a lower-tier planet.
The alley door was already opening as he slammed into it, shoulder first. Cold air hit his face, sharp and metallic, carrying the scent of exhaust and sewer.
Above the towering buildings, three drones descended with the smooth confidence of predators that never missed their prey.
"Stop running!"
He didn't.
Shouts sounded behind him, but Milas didn't bother looking back. He sprinted down the alley, boots slapping against damp stones, lungs burning as neon signs flickered above.
A wall rose ahead. An old border separating commercial blocks from residential sectors.
Milas sprinted toward it, leapt, grabbed the edge, and hauled himself up in one smooth motion.
He looked down.
Two officers panted beneath him.
"Wow," he called out. "You officers should really work out more."
That earned him a string of creative threats and the unmistakable hum of a drone adjusting altitude.
Milas' grin vanished.
"Oh. That's cheating."
The drone's underside opened up with a mechanical click, letting out a metallic cable to help the officers up.
Right. Of course they still had their little gadgets.
Milas swore and jumped.
He landed on the other side, rolled, and ran.
The city blurred into a maze of steel and glass as he ran—down one street, up a maintenance ladder, across a narrow rooftop moist from condensation.
The drones followed above, lenses fixed on him with unwavering focus.
His breath came sharp and shallow. His legs burned. He couldn't keep this up for much longer.
Milas slipped into a side passage, leapt over a broken fence that scraped the skin off his palms.
He hit the ground hard, his foot hurt, but he kept going.
Think.
His lungs burned.
He looked up.
Past the shallower rooftops of the residential area, an invisible shimmer stretched across.
That's it.
The drones weren't allowed everywhere.
There were rules. Always rules.
Not to protect people like him, but to protect the people who mattered, like the nobles.
Milas smirked as he skidded around a corner and a tall iron gate loomed over him.
But sometimes you could make use of those rules.
He sprinted forward, leapt up, and climbed over the fence, landing not so elegantly on his bottom.
The drone slammed into an invisible barrier with a metallic clang, wobbling violently before freezing in place, caught in the air. Its lens whirred, focusing but not moving an inch.
They stared at each other before Milas stuck out a middle finger toward it.
Then he collapsed onto the obscenely soft grass, chest heaving, heart pounding loud enough that he was sure anyone walking by could hear it.
"…Thank you, rich people."
He didn't wait to see if the officers dared to follow.
Milas slipped into the villa grounds, keeping low.
Although he had only been here for a few minutes, he already knew he had walked into the home of a filthy rich person.
Because they had trees.
Real trees.
But not only that, there were water fountains. Green grass that was perfectly cut, and statues made out of carved starstone that glowed softly along the path.
Better get out quickly.
The air here felt different—cleaner, quieter, wealthier.
It made his skin crawl.
He ducked behind a marble column just as voices drifted toward him from an open terrace door.
A young woman's voice, sharp and resigned.
"I don't want to marry the duke!"
Milas froze.
"If his face is going to be cold all day, every day, then what's the point?" she continued. "If I wanted to feel cold, I'd go to Planet Izra and play with the penguins!"
A tired man sighed.
"My dear, this marriage has already been promised. Duke Finnian's house offered us development rights in the capital star. Do you understand what that means to our family?"
"I don't care," she snapped. "So what if we go broke? I'll just work at Bilo's place."
"You working? You are related to one of the Great Fifteen Houses. Working with that Bilo is beneath you."
Milas pressed himself further into the shadows.
Finnian.
That name rang a bell.
Especially in relation to the other fifteen houses. Wasn't there supposed to be some kind of contest to decide the next emperor or something like that?
Not that it had anything to do with him.
So that Duke Finnian or something was so cold that nobody wanted him, huh?
Milas almost snorted.
Better get going.
But before he could retreat, a shadow fell over him.
A hand like an iron clamp latched onto his collar.
Damn.
Milas barely had time to inhale before he was hauled upright and dragged across the terrace. It wasn't like he didn't try to struggle, but the grip didn't budge, so he just hung there like a wet sack.
The girl stopped mid-rant.
Her father's eyes flicked toward them, irritation clear on his face.
"A rat sneaked in, sir," the bodyguard reported.
The man grimaced and waved his hand dismissively. "Deal with it."
Milas swallowed.
That was it, then.
He closed his eyes and braced himself for the blow.
"Wait."
The girl stepped closer, studying him with open curiosity. Her gaze traveled from his dirt-streaked clothes to his face.
"The duke just needs someone to marry, right?"
Her father stared at her. "What?"
She tilted her head. "He looks like someone from our circle."
"That's just a rat."
Milas shook his head immediately. He really didn't want to be caught up in this whole mess.
"I would thankfully decline."
He'd rather take the beating. At least then he would still live.
If it came out that he impersonated a noble, as a mud, not only would he die, but everyone from his underground block would be dragged into it.
His stomach twisted.
The doorbell rang.
Everything seemed to freeze.
A servant hurried in, pale. "Sir… officers are at the gate. They are asking if you have seen any suspicious people around, and maybe if it's possible for them to search the premises." He glanced at Milas being held by the bodyguard. "They say they are pursuing a criminal with a Level Three offense."
Milas' blood ran cold.
Level Three?
When the hell did that happen?
Was it the bar job? Or when he beat that pig of an officer? Or… the watch? It did seem expensive…
…Yeah.
He'd been pushing his luck lately.
Level One meant a beating—and if the officer felt like it, maybe beating some people close by too.
Level Two meant a labor camp.
And Level Three? Criminals of that level were sent to war zones, and their relatives were sent to labor camps along with them.
And that was only up to Level Three.
Impersonating a noble and scamming one of the fifteen houses into marriage?
Let's just say Level Three wasn't the highest level.
And all of that was just the official side.
Unofficially… there were many disappearances, and nobody questioned those.
The main thing now was to get out of this situation.
If they handed him over, it was over.
At least like this, there was still wriggle room.
The father hesitated.
The girl looked at Milas again.
He met her gaze and smirked.
It was effortless. A lazy, crooked smile that suggested confidence rather than the desperation hidden behind it.
Her cheeks flushed.
"Well," Milas said lightly, "how about we continue talking about that deal from earlier again?"