Suddenly, Michael burst into laughter.
It wasn't the nervous chuckle of a cornered kid. It was the ragged, wild sound of someone who'd finally seen the punchline to a joke that had been beating him senseless for years. The kind of laugh that bubbled up from a place where rage and exhaustion and I'm-so-damn-tired-of-this-BS collided.
The Curator's smirk faltered. "You… uh… having a stroke there, champ?"
Michael wiped tears from his eyes—tears he hadn't realized were there.
"Nah. Just realized something real funny."
Michael straightened, rolling his shoulders like he was loosening up for a pitch. "You know how many times I've heard some version of 'know your place, kid'? Let me count…"
He held up his left hand.
"Little League coach when I tried out for pitcher at eight. High school scouts when I asked about D1 scholarships. Doctors after the crash." A finger snapped down with each example. "Hell, even my dad when I said I'd make pro ball. 'Know your place, Mikey. Trailer trash don't get golden tickets.'"
The Curator leaned against the wall. "Heartwarming. Got a point?"
"The point," Michael said, voice hardening, "is you're just another clown with a script. Think I'm some scared kid who'll fold if you growl loud enough? Newsflash—I've been playing chicken with apathy since I could walk. You wanna see 'know your place'?"
"Activate Combat Mode."
He slammed his prosthetic fist into the steel wall.
CRUNCH.
The metal dented inward, the force rippling outward in jagged waves. The prosthetic flickered visible for a split second—blades extended, molten seams pulsing—before vanishing again.
"This is my place now." Michael stepped closer, eyes locked on the Curator's. "Between the girl who needs me and the freaks trying to eat us. So save your act for someone who didn't grow up dodging methheads and bill collectors."
Silence thickened the air.
The Curator studied him—really studied him—for the first time. The smirk didn't return.
"Cute speech. Still doesn't change the facts."
"Then give me facts." Michael crossed his arms. "You want me gone? Tell me why I'm really here. And don't feed me that 'anomaly' crap. People don't hunt anomalies unless they're useful."
A beat. Two.
Then the Curator sighed—a sound like a parent reluctantly admitting the tooth fairy wasn't real.
"Fine. You want the unvarnished truth? The Store thinks you're a loose nuke. Mortal realm's supposed to be a sandbox—controlled, predictable. Then you show up." He jabbed a finger at Michael's invisible arm. "SSS-tier gear? Dragon-slaying? Bonds with otherworld champions? That's not just rule-breaking. It's realm-shattering."
Michael didn't blink. "So?"
"So…" The Curator's voice dropped. "There's a reason the upper realms hate wildcards. And right now, you're the joker in their deck. Keep this up, and the next thing knocking on your door won't be a dragon. It'll be a Titan. And trust me—" His lips twitched. "—those guys don't leave scraps for vultures."
The threat hung in the air, sharp and serrated.
Michael met the Curator's gaze. "Then help me stop them."
The man blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Michael stepped closer. "If I'm such a big damn problem, why not use me? You've got intel. Resources. And I've got…" He gestured at his invisible arm. "…whatever this is. Team up. Take the fight to them before they barbecue us."
The Curator barked a laugh. "Oh, this is rich. Kid thinks he's Negotiating With the Devil now."
"Negotiating? Nah." Michael's grin was all teeth. "I'm giving you a survival tip. 'Cause if the Store's so scared of me, what happens when the upper realms come knocking? You really think they'll stop at me?" He leaned in, whisper-harsh. "Or will they burn everyone who let a 'loose nuke' run wild?"
Silence.
Somewhere down the hall, water dripped. The Curator's expression didn't change, but Michael caught it—the tiniest twitch in his left eyelid.
Gotcha.
"Interesting theory," the Curator said lightly. "Got proof?"
"Proof's in your reaction." Michael tapped his temple. "You're not scared for me. You're scared of me. Which means whatever's coming—whatever hunters your bosses are sending—they're not just after some anomaly. They're cleaning house. And guess who's first on the mop list?"
Another pause. Longer this time.
Then the Curator sighed again, rubbing his temples.
He pulled out a new Fanta—where did he even store those?—and popped the tab.