Shin’s apartment in Adachi Ward was little more than a concrete box. It smelled faintly of mildew and instant ramen.

  He locked the deadbolt, slid the security chain into place, and collapsed against the cheap veneer of the front door. The chill of the Mukade toll still gnawed at the marrow of his bones. His teeth chattered uncontrollably, and his breath plumed in the dim light of the entryway. The centipede swarm had cost no blood, but the unnatural, freezing drop in his core temperature was agonizing.

  He dragged himself to the cramped kitchenette, turned the tap as hot as it would go, and held his hands under the stream. It felt like burning needles piercing his skin, but slowly, the violent shivering began to subside.

  Once he could feel his fingers again, Shin reached into his jacket and pulled out the stolen loot.

  He dropped the brass Bind-Plate onto the scarred laminate counter. It landed with a heavy, dull clank. Next to it, he placed his iron Karakuri plate and the blackened Mukade plate.

  His deck was growing.

  Shin leaned over the counter, inspecting the brass. It was thicker than his centipede plate but lacked the dense, gravity-sinking weight of the Karakuri. The carving on the surface was crude—a hulking, faceless ape with fists the size of cinderblocks. The Crusher Stray.

  It was a brute-force entity. Slow, stupid, but incredibly durable. If he used the centipedes to lock an enemy down, he could use the Crusher to deliver the finishing blow. It was the perfect mid-tier monster.

  Shin pressed his thumb against the edge of the brass, intending to test the activation cost.

  He didn't even need to break the skin. The moment his bare flesh touched the metal, a jolt of raw, aggressive energy spiked up his forearm. It felt like grabbing a live wire. Shin hissed and snatched his hand back.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The brass was warm. Unnaturally warm.

  Shin narrowed his eyes. He leaned closer, inspecting the jagged edges of the plate. Deep within the grooves of the metal, he saw it. A faint, glowing red residue pulsing rhythmically, like a slow heartbeat.

  It was a Blood Signature.

  Bind-Plates weren't just trading cards. When a summoner paid the Blood Toll consistently, the iron memorized their biology. The thug in the stairwell hadn't just dropped his weapon; his cursed blood was still actively bound to the brass.

  Shin’s stomach dropped. He suddenly remembered the pit-boss from the flooded tunnels—the massive Yakuza with the writhing, black-veined arm. He wasn't just a fighter; he was a tracker. The boss’s cursed arm fed on the blood signatures of his subordinates.

  The brass plate wasn't just a weapon. It was a beacon.

  A low, vibrating hum interrupted his thoughts. It wasn't coming from the plate. It was coming from the floorboards.

  Shin stood perfectly still. His apartment was on the third floor of a crumbling complex overlooking a narrow alley. He crept toward the single window, keeping his back pressed flat against the peeling wallpaper, and peered

  Three unmarked, black vans had silently boxed in the entrance to his building. The headlights were cut.

  The side doors slid open. A dozen men poured out into the alleyway. They weren't wearing cheap windbreakers like the thugs in the stairwell. These men wore heavy tactical vests, and instead of guns, they carried large, matte-black iron plates strapped to their thighs. Real hitters.

  And leading them was the pit-boss from the flooded tunnel. He stepped out of the lead van, his cursed, black-veined arm pulsing with a dull red light—beating in perfect, terrifying sync with the stolen brass plate sitting on Shin’s kitchen counter.

  Shin backed away from the window, his heart hammering against his bruised ribs.

  He didn't have time to pack. He grabbed his cheap canvas backpack off the floor, swept the brass plate, the Mukade plate, and the heavy iron Karakuri plate off the counter, and shoved them deep inside.

  He couldn't fight twelve men and a pit-boss in a cramped apartment. If he used the Karakuri here, the marionette would butcher them, but it would tear the building down in the process—and it would cost him another memory.

  Heavy, synchronized footsteps echoed in the hallway outside his door.

  “Floor three, room 302,” a muffled voice ordered through the thin walls. “Lock the stairs. Take him alive, but take his arms.”

  Shin didn't hesitate. He bypassed the front door entirely, sprinting for the small sliding glass door that led to his rusted fire escape. He threw it open, the metal groaning loudly in the quiet night air, and vaulted over the railing just as his front door exploded inward with a deafening crash of splintering wood.

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