The next morning hit Kyle like a slap to the face. His room was quiet, the bed softer than anything he'd ever slept on, but his stomach still twisted with nerves. He sat on the edge of the mattress, boots dangling just above the floor, and let out a long, heavy sigh.
"Alright, Kyle," he muttered to himself. "Day one of not screwing this up."
His mind drifted back to Natalie. The way she'd shoved that crumpled stack of cash into his hands back in the slums. "You've got a shot," she'd said, her voice sharp but warm. "Don't waste it."
He rubbed his face with both hands. "Yeah, Natalie. Working on it. Promise." He could still smell the rot of the slums, feel the weight of her trust. No way he was letting her down—not after everything.
Standing up, he grabbed his vest and the dagger. The bl
