The Nexus Developer: Akashic Records System

Angelina descended the steps of the communal building, carrying a carefully embroidered cotton bag. Inside, a small glass jar was wrapped in brown paper. The subtle aroma of Feijuca beans filled the air around her, a scent she always associated with comfort and the hard work of the neighborhood's people.

The midday heat weighed on the freshly renovated asphalt, but the breeze from the Mendanha Mountains brought a momentary relief, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and dry leaves.

The building she lived in, painted in vibrant shades of yellow and blue, was a testament to the collective efforts of its residents. The murals covering the outer walls told stories—a timeline of dreams, struggles, and achievements. Scenes of local life blended with dreamlike images: birds from Brazil's fauna soared over fields illuminated by mana, while human figures coexisted harmoniously with beings born from the fertile imagination of artistic and craft-support manausers. Angie always felt that this building was more than just a place to live; it was a symbol of resilience and hope in District 43.

As Angie walked through the newly paved streets, the soft strumming of a guitar drifted from a nearby balcony, mixing with the bright laughter of children running barefoot on the warm asphalt. They played hopscotch between the gentle shadows cast by decorative streetlights, which, though rarely used, served as adornments for the neighborhood's efficient underground energy system. Every corner pulsed with a warmth rarely found in other parts of District 43. Here, people knew each other, trusted one another, and, above all, looked out for one another.

At the corner, a modest stall stood out not for its size, but for the explosion of colors spread among the precisely folded fabrics. Behind it, Dona Rita, a well-known and respected figure, carefully adjusted her merchandise with steady hands.

"Taking Feijuca, Angelina?" Dona Rita asked in her warm voice as she arranged a roll of green fabric with red borders.

Dona Rita was a woman in her seventies, a proud Black Bahian with deep roots in her ancestry. Her face, marked by gentle wrinkles, told stories of years of work and countless shared smiles. Her short, graying hair gleamed under the golden morning light, cut in a practical yet elegant style. She wore a harewom with geometric patterns in green, decorated with small red and brown shields—a piece she had woven herself, the intricate details reflecting her patience and skill.

For Rita, her craft was more than just a trade; it was a connection to her roots. Many of the techniques she used had been passed down through generations, taught to her by her mother and grandmother before her. Each stitch carried stories, each embroidery was a symbol of resistance and belonging. Even far from Bahia, she made sure to keep the traditions she had learned alive, weaving not just fabrics but bonds within her community.

Angie smiled at the question and lifted her cotton bag, revealing the jar wrapped in brown paper. "Yes, these beans are for Dona Helena. I promised to stop by in the afternoon to have a meal with her."

Dona Rita's eyes shone with approval, and a broad smile spread across her lips. "Ah, Helena will love that. But don't forget to eat properly before getting lost in your work, you hear?"

"Don't worry, Dona Rita. I'll take care of it," Angie replied, her voice carrying a light chuckle.

She stepped closer to the stall, running her fingers over a deep blue fabric embroidered with golden threads. Dona Rita's stall was simple but full of life. The neatly folded fabrics formed meticulously arranged piles, displaying geometric and floral patterns in vibrant tones. Angie's keen eyes scanned the seamstress's work, admiring the subtle details.

Dona Rita was a Rank G support manauser, and her only awakened ability was related to sewing and fabric reinforcement. It was a modest skill, but one she mastered with precision. Unfortunately, her low mana reserves meant most of her fabrics were no higher than Rank F—durable, yes, but lacking the complex enchantments or sophistication of the coveted products sold by the "big Z" and its elite clientele.

Still, Dona Rita never let that be a barrier. If she couldn't compete in the high-end market, she found value where it truly mattered: in her own community. Her fabrics, even without powerful reinforcements, were affordable, reliable, and worn by nearly everyone in the neighborhood. They dressed children, decorated homes, and provided warmth against the cold. Every piece she sold was more than just a product—it was a bond that strengthened the local economy and the lives of those around her.

Angie knew that, with time and patience, Dona Rita could accumulate layers of improvement and maybe, one day, reach something of Rank C. But deep down, that didn't matter. What truly made a difference was the impact she already had.

"If you need anything else, dear, just say the word," Dona Rita said, pulling Angie from her thoughts. "And send my regards to Dona Helena!"

"Will do," Angie replied, giving one last glance at the fabrics before continuing on her way.

As she walked, feeling the comforting weight of the Feijuca pot in her bag, Angie reflected on the neighborhood. Each person contributed in their own way, and it was this exchange, this invisible web of mutual support, that made the place thrive. Here, true value wasn't found in power, but in connection.

Even so, Dona Rita knew exactly how to profit from her skill. Angie admired her intelligence. Instead of trying to compete in the high-end market, Rita focused on the community. She produced durable and affordable fabrics for the neighborhood residents, who used her creations for clothing, blankets, and even tapestries to decorate their homes. It was a cycle of mutual support: the residents bought from Rita, she helped sustain the local economy, and the neighborhood prospered despite the challenges imposed by the unfair system of District 43.

Angie thought about this as she ran her fingers over a green fabric with golden details. Rita knew it would take years before she could develop something at a Rank C level, let alone B-, but she never got discouraged. On the contrary, she used her talent to strengthen the community, turning small actions into significant impacts. To Angie, Rita was the perfect example of how the western side of District 43 survived—not through individual wealth, but through collective effort.

As she walked, Angie reflected on how the neighborhood functioned like a living organism. Each person contributed in their own way. Manausers like Dona Rita, with supportive abilities, reinforced the foundation of the community. Other residents, like the artists painting murals on buildings or the vendors selling amulets and mana-infused fruits, were also part of this collective effort. Despite individual limitations, the community was strong because it knew how to work together.

The sound of a guitar filled the air again, mixed with the laughter of children. Angie squeezed the pot inside her bag, breathing in the aroma of Feijuca's beans. Despite all the challenges, she knew that the western side of District 43 was a place of hope and resilience, and that was exactly what the world needed.

The western side of District 43 was known for the creative simplicity of its residents. The sidewalks were well-maintained, repaired by the inhabitants themselves using materials obtained through donations or trade. Carefully planted trees appeared at regular intervals, designed to provide shade and even bear mana-infused fruit depending on the season.

Angie felt the gaze of a group of teenagers gathered near a mural under construction. They were painting an image of a jaguar surrounded by an arc of lights and stars, representing the Mendanha Mountains, which loomed in the distance on the horizon. The mountain wasn't just a symbol for the neighborhood but also a natural refuge and a training ground for hunters and manausers, connecting them to the world beyond the dome.

Angelina's walk took her through alleys where street vendors offered a variety of products. Creative trinkets, such as small mana lamps or jewelry made from energized crystals, were displayed alongside fresh fruits and freshly baked bread. Despite their simplicity, each item seemed to carry the unique mark of the community's effort.

As she moved, the sounds and scents of the neighborhood enveloped her. The smell of meat grilling on an improvised barbecue mixed with the sweet aroma of a cake cooling on a nearby windowsill. It all formed a living tapestry that strongly contrasted with the center of District 43.

In the center, imposing mansions and shopping malls dominated the landscape, reinforced by the Arcane power of wealthy families and influential Awakened ones. The opulence there was almost offensive compared to the creativity and resilience of the western side. While the center gleamed with the perfection of projects funded by the "Great Z," the west survived and flourished through the collective strength of its residents.

When Angelina turned the last corner before reaching the market, she paused for a moment to take in the scenery. The sunlight reflected off the murals, bathing the streets in warm tones, while the light breeze carried a freshness that seemed to wash over the neighborhood in a temporary tranquility. The day continued at its usual pace, as always, but there was something special about that subtle harmony—the laughter of children, the distant sound of a radio playing a classic samba, the scent of fresh spices floating in the air.

On the horizon, the Mendanha Mountains rose like a giant protector. After the Convergence, the mountain had become a training ground for hunters and manausers who faced the monsters outside the dome. Its presence not only provided an imposing natural backdrop but was also a source of pride for the residents of the west, who saw it as a symbol of strength and resilience.

Angie continued walking through the neighborhood, observing people coming and going. Street vendors pushed carts full of fresh fruit and homemade treats, while others sold handcrafted items infused with mana. The neighborhood breathed like a living organism, pulsing with colors, sounds, and aromas. Each resident, with their routine and their effort, was an essential part of the invisible web that sustained the western side.

At the back of the neighborhood, near one of the trails leading to the base of the mountain range, stood the restaurant Sabores da Nossa Terra. The facade was simple but welcoming, painted in earthy tones and decorated with vibrant plants. A small handcrafted wooden sign displayed the restaurant's name, with carefully hand-drawn lettering. The aroma of homemade food drifted through the open windows, carrying with it memories of comfort and home.

Dona Helena—or Maria Helena, as everyone called her—stood at the door, giving directions to a delivery worker carrying a sack of flour. The sunlight highlighted her graying hair, tied in a loose bun, and her apron, speckled with small patches of flour, revealed that she had already been in the kitchen for hours. Short and sturdy, Helena always had a warm smile and an inviting gaze that made any customer feel at home.

When she spotted Angie, her eyes lit up with recognition, and she opened her arms as if welcoming an old friend.

"Angie, my dear! You finally showed up. Come in, come in. It's time for you to eat some real food."

Angie smiled and hurried inside, immediately enveloped by the restaurant's familiar energy. It was one of those places where time seemed to slow down—a refuge within the neighborhood.

In the kitchen, Heitor, Helena's husband, was focused on preparing the day's lunch. Even seated in his wheelchair, he still had an imposing presence. He didn't talk much, but his skilled hands chopped ingredients with precision. The scent of braised meat mixed with the aroma of garlic sizzling in the pan, creating an irresistible invitation for anyone passing by.

Helena and Heitor were pillars of the neighborhood. Together, they had built the restaurant not just as a means of livelihood but as a gathering place—a refuge for those in need of a meal, advice, or simply a friendly conversation.

Angie recalled the stories about Heitor, a tough-talking gaucho with a sharp gaze, who had once been an exceptional hunter before an accident forced him to retire from expeditions beyond the dome. Many had expected him to fade away after that, but Heitor had simply found a new way to contribute. If he had once protected people with his spear, now he did so with his talent in the kitchen. His arroz de carreteiro was already legendary in the neighborhood, and the discipline he applied to every dish proved that, even away from the battlefield, he was still a warrior.

Dona Helena appeared beside Angie, pulling out a chair for her.

"Today's main dish is arroz de carreteiro with crispy pork belly and a fresh salad. But if you want something lighter, we also have fresh pão de queijo that Heitor just made."

Before sitting down, Angie pulled a small jar wrapped in brown paper from her bag and handed it to Dona Helena.

"I brought the grains," she said, extending the jar carefully.

Helena took the container with a sparkle in her eyes, as if receiving a precious gift.

"Ah, my dear, you got here just in time. My last jar was almost empty," Helena remarked, opening the lid just enough to peek at the dark, glossy beans inside. She always treated those little beans as something special. And, in a way, they were.

The Feijuca that Angie cultivated at home produced only a few beans every three days, but each one had the ability to enhance ten bowls of beans or any other dish. Helena never used them directly; instead, she soaked them in the fridge, slowly extracting their properties and infusing them into the spices and broths she used in the restaurant. It was a discreet but effective process.

The result? The food served there carried a subtle trace of accumulative energy. For manausers who regularly ate at Sabores da Nossa Terra, the benefits built up gradually—slightly increased resistance, a prolonged sense of vitality. It wasn't a sudden surge of power, nothing flashy, but it made a difference. The irony was that no one had ever uncovered this secret because the informants of Grande Z never ate there. To them, it was just a cheap restaurant, frequented by workers and people from the outskirts.

Helena chuckled, shaking her head.

"If those suit-wearing snobs knew, they'd be trying to tax even our beans," she said, winking at Angie as she carefully put the jar away.

"Good thing they keep ignoring us," Angie replied, taking a sip of juice. "That way, we can keep looking out for the people who actually matter."

The food, the conversation, and the warmth of the place filled Angie with a familiar sense of comfort. Even without great resources, the community always found ways to support one another. The neighborhood survived because everyone took care of each other, one way or another.

Dona Helena sat beside Angie, watching her for a moment with that affectionate gaze—one that always seemed to know when something was going on.

"And what about you, my dear?" she asked, helping herself to a piece of pão de queijo. "How's your work going? Are you eating properly?"

Angie smirked. She knew this was Helena's subtle way of asking if she was overworking herself again.

"I'm fine, Dona Helena. Keeping up the pace," she replied, taking a bite of the cheese bread. "I get so focused sometimes that I lose track of time, but nothing serious."

Helena raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. But before she could press further, a massive figure appeared at the restaurant entrance, blocking part of the light streaming in through the door.

It was Mike.

Standing at 2.80 meters tall, with a physique that looked as if it had been carved from stone, he seemed completely out of place in such a cozy environment. The customers at the nearby tables, all around 1.60 meters tall, instinctively leaned back slightly, making space for the giant.

"Mike, my boy! You finally decided to show up!" exclaimed Dona Helena, opening her arms as if she intended to wrap him in a hug—something that, given their size difference, seemed almost impossible.

He smiled, scratching the back of his neck, trying not to look as intimidating as his presence inevitably was. "Hey, Dona Helena. Sorry for the delay, I was taking care of some things."

Before he could even think about sitting on one of the regular chairs, Helena walked over to the corner of the restaurant and pulled out a special chair. It was a peculiar piece: extremely low, with reinforced cushions, custom-made for Mike.

"Here you go, sit here, boy! You're way too big for these regular chairs," she said, patting the seat to signal him to sit.

Mike sighed, already used to this routine, and sat cross-legged in the special chair. Even then, his head was still slightly above Dona Helena's, which earned a few quiet chuckles from the surrounding customers.

Helena studied him for a moment, then pursed her lips and put her hands on her hips. "For heaven's sake, look at this boy, Angie! He's too skinny! You're not feeding your brother, are you?"

Angie almost choked on her juice at that, while Mike visibly shrank, his broad shoulders hunching slightly.

"Skinny?" Angie raised an eyebrow, glancing at Mike's muscles, which were literally bigger than her head. "Dona Helena, if he eats any more than he already does, the whole neighborhood's gonna have a food shortage."

The entire restaurant burst into laughter. Mike, completely red, lowered his head and mumbled, "I eat normally…" while Dona Helena was already piling his plate high with generous servings of arroz de carreteiro and torresmo.

"None of that, you're way too skinny. You're going to eat, and I don't want any complaints!"

Angie leaned back in her chair, laughing. It was amazing how this massive, imposing man—who could probably lift a car if he wanted to—was utterly defenseless in Dona Helena's presence.

Satisfied that she had filled Mike's plate to its absolute limit, Dona Helena looked around and slightly furrowed her brow, as if she had only just realized someone was missing.

"And Rafael? He was supposed to be with you, wasn't he?" Dona Helena asked, casting a curious glance at Angie.

Before she could respond, Mike quickly finished chewing a generous piece of torresmo and wiped his mouth with his forearm, taking it upon himself to explain.

"Rafa was called for a mission on the northern side of the dome. They sent him to investigate a strange sighting… they said it might be a Jurupari."

The name made Dona Helena and some nearby customers stop what they were doing.

"Jurupari?" Helena repeated in a lower voice. "It's been a long time since I've heard that name. Are you sure?"

Mike nodded, scooping up a spoonful of rice before continuing.

"A group of hunters saw something in the forest near the river. They said it was a shadow with glowing eyes, tall like a man but with arms that were too long and claws that scratched the trees as it passed. The worst part is that the tracks didn't make sense… it looked like it was walking forward and backward at the same time."

Angie frowned, feeling a slight chill run down her spine.

The Jurupari, according to legend, was a mysterious spirit that roamed the dense forest, an entity tied to dreams and darkness. Some stories described it as an ancient guardian, others as a relentless predator that hunted those who dared venture where they shouldn't. The problem was that, unlike more common creatures, no one knew exactly how to deal with it—because few who encountered it ever returned to tell the tale.

"If it really is a Jurupari..." Angie began, resting her elbows on the table.

"...Then it makes sense they sent Rafa," Mike finished, taking another bite. "He's one of the few dual-class Manausers: Ranger/Rogue. If anyone can track it and figure out what's going on without being seen, it's him."

Dona Helena sighed, crossing her arms.

"These creatures that keep appearing… they used to be just legends. But now?" She shook her head, uneasy. "I worry about you boys."

"Rafa knows what he's doing," Angie said, trying to sound confident. "He'll find out what's happening and come back in one piece."

Even so, the unease lingered. If it really was a Jurupari… then what was happening out there?

Helena took a deep breath and patted Angie's shoulder gently, as if trying to push away their concerns.

"Well, no use dwelling on it now. When he gets back, I expect him to bring me a proper report." Then, she turned to Mike, pointing her spoon at him like she was giving a final order.

"And you, boy, eat everything on your plate before I have to feed you with a spoon."

Mike turned red again, sinking into his plate as if he wanted to disappear. The restaurant erupted in muffled laughter, and some customers tried to hide their amusement, but it was impossible not to find it funny seeing a giant, muscular man being scolded like a child.

Life went on at "Sabores da Nossa Terra." The hum of conversations returned to fill the space, blending with the metallic sound of cutlery and the irresistible smell of home-cooked food. But Angie still felt a chill down her spine.

A Jurupari... What exactly was lurking outside the dome?

She pushed the thought away for a moment, taking a deep breath. She looked around, taking in every detail, savoring the scent of hot food, listening to the laughter, and observing the bulletin board covered in notes and photos. This was what made "Sabores da Nossa Terra" so special. It wasn't just the delicious food; it was the home they built for each other.

Deep down, Angie wondered if she would ever create something as strong as this.

As she ate, her eyes wandered to the bulletin board in the corner of the restaurant. Photographs, notes, and scribbles decorated the wall. Childish drawings shared space with messages of gratitude left by customers.

"Best food on the west side!" read a note signed by a group of workers.

Another, written in careful handwriting, simply said: "Thank you for always welcoming us."

Each of those messages was a fragment of a story, an echo of the countless people who had passed through and found more than just food — they found a place to belong.

Angie closed her eyes for a moment and imagined what would happen if this restaurant didn't exist. If Dona Helena and Heitor hadn't turned that space into a refuge. How many people would have gone hungry? How many stories would never have been shared?

That's what "Sabores da Nossa Terra" represented. More than a restaurant, it was the heart of the neighborhood.

Angie left "Sabores da Nossa Terra" alongside Mike, feeling the warm afternoon breeze on her face. In her hands, she held a carefully packed lunch — a gift from Heitor, who, as always, insisted that Rafael couldn't go the day without a decent meal.

"Take this to that stubborn one," Heitor had said, placing the container firmly in Mike's hands. "It's got the rest of the Feijuca sauce. Should keep him going, even if he decides to be an idiot out in the woods."

Dona Helena huffed, crossing her arms with a smile. "The day that boy comes back eating properly on his own, I'll give him a prize myself."

Angie laughed, but deep down, she was relieved. If Rafael was going to spend hours on the border investigating that creature, at least he'd have real food to sustain him.

They walked through the neighborhood streets, moving at the leisurely pace of people who didn't need to rush but also didn't want to waste time.

Mike gestured animatedly as he spoke, sharing details about his day. "So, when we got to the border, all the sensors were off. At first, I thought it was a system failure, but then the patrol team found something much more interesting."

"Something like... a problem?" Angie asked, raising an eyebrow.

"More like something rare." Mike grinned. "We saw an entire family of giant anteaters."

Angie blinked, surprised. "Here?! Near Bangu?"

"Yep!" Mike confirmed, laughing. "It's been years since anyone saw one in this area. But there they were, a bit wary, crossing an open patch of land. The team even turned off the drones so they wouldn't scare them."

"And no one went after them?"

"Nah. They were far from the critical perimeter. Better to let nature do its thing."

Angie smiled, appreciating the simplicity of the moment. It was rare to hear about something as pure as wild animals living freely, without human interference. For a few moments, the idea that there was something beyond the chaos and power struggles was comforting.

But that comfort disappeared the instant they turned the corner.

The energy of the atmosphere shifted — an invisible weight, an unease that was felt even before their eyes located the source.

On the other side of the street, almost lazily leaning against a pole, Ajerndre was watching them.

The Brazilian-Paraguayan mestizo, with neatly trimmed black hair and a body marked by constant training, wore a crooked smile, something between disdain and boredom. His dark eyes held that calculating gleam, the look of someone who always saw himself above the rest.

Rank D. Class: Fighter.

Angie didn't like Ajerndre. No one liked Ajerndre. 

He was the type of guy who always found a way to profit, no matter how dirty the deal was. A greedy bastard who saw everyone beneath him and made sure to show it. 

Mike stopped immediately, and Angie noticed how his shoulders tensed — an instinctive reaction from someone who knew that with Ajerndre, it was always best to be prepared for the worst. 

The informant kept his smile while pushing himself away from the pole, taking two steps forward, just enough to block their path. 

"Look who's parading around here," he said, crossing his arms. "Coming back from Grandma Helena's restaurant? How sweet." 

The tone was pure venom, and Angie felt her jaw clench. 

She hated when Ajerndre showed up. It meant he wanted something. 

And when a guy like him wanted something, it was never a good sign. 

Ajerndre's smile wasn't friendly. It never was. 

He moved slowly, like a predator toying with its prey before the attack, his eyes scanning every detail of Angie and Mike. 

"So, Mike? How's the babysitting job for this girl going?" 

Mike didn't take the bait. He simply stayed still, gripping the lunchbox he was carrying for Rafael. His gaze didn't waver, showing no irritation, but Angie knew he was ready to react to the slightest wrong move. 

Ajerndre scoffed, taking a step forward, now focusing solely on Angie. 

"And you, girl?" His voice slid between disdain and fake curiosity. "Tell me something... have you thought about your future? Because, honestly, it doesn't seem like you're seizing the right opportunities." 

Angie didn't respond immediately. She knew the game he was playing. Ajerndre wasn't the type to speak without a reason. He liked to make others feel insecure before making his move. 

"What a shame," he continued, pretending to lament. "They say you even have potential, but you keep insisting on this nonsense of making little games for anyone." 

Angie narrowed her eyes but remained silent.

She already knew where this was headed. 

Ajerndre smirked, leaning slightly forward. 

"But I understand," he said, lowering his voice as if trying to seem reasonable. "After all, you haven't graduated yet, right? Maybe you haven't quite figured out how things work..." 

And then he threw out the bait. 

"Because, well... once you graduate, things are going to change." 

Angie clenched her jaw. 

She knew exactly what that meant. 

This wasn't the first time Ajerndre had tried this kind of move. Last month, a young artist almost fell for the same trap, offering exclusive designs in exchange for "protection" — protection that, at its core, meant disguised slavery. 

By law, graduated developers no longer had to create public games for free. They began working under contract, able to sell their creations or choose their own projects. This prevented them from being exploited as cheap labor — something that deeply bothered people like Ajerndre. 

He didn't see developers as creators but as tools. 

In his mind, they were supposed to be forced to provide free entertainment for the "real fighters," as he liked to call himself. 

And Angie was one of the few well-known developers in the neighborhood. Even though she was mediocre, she had a future. She would be graduating soon. 

And that meant she would no longer be an "accessible" resource. 

Ajerndre sighed theatrically and pulled a small holographic device from the inner pocket of his coat. 

Angie felt her palms sweat lightly. She hated this kind of game, but she knew that if she hesitated for even a second, Ajerndre would use it against her. 

With a quick touch, a contract appeared in the air, floating before Angie. 

"But look..." He smiled, his eyes shining with false sympathy. "I know the market can be tough for a young girl, without many connections... So I'm here to offer you an out." 

He spun the hologram slowly with his fingers, as if showing her something precious. 

"An exclusive contract." 

The word sounded like a metal trap closing. 

Mike stepped forward, the shadow of his body almost swallowing Ajerndre in the process. The air around them grew heavy. 

But Ajerndre didn't flinch. He knew Mike couldn't do anything. Not there. 

"You sign," he continued, ignoring the overwhelming presence of the giant beside him, "and ensure that all your work is licensed exclusively to my superiors." 

The names of his bosses were never mentioned, but it was implied. 

He wanted to scare her. He wanted Angie to imagine who was behind it and collapse in fear before even thinking about saying no.

But Angie wasn't stupid. 

She took a deep breath, keeping her face impassive. Her heart was racing, but she wouldn't let Ajerndre see that. 

Because if she showed any weakness now, he'd never leave her alone. 

The hologram of the contract continued to float in the air, Angie's name coldly reflected on the translucent screen. 

Ajerndre was smiling, confident, waiting for her to give in. 

But Angie didn't move. 

Instead, she crossed her arms and tilted her head slightly to the side, studying him as if he were an incomplete puzzle. 

"What's wrong?" Ajerndre mocked. "Thought you were going to slip by unnoticed? That no one would want a piece of what you do?" 

Mike still hadn't said anything, but the way he clenched his fists was enough to make a building shake. 

And that was when Angie saw her opportunity. 

She let out an exasperated sigh, made a gesture in the air, and pressed a command on the public access bracelet strapped to her wrist. 

The hologram flickered, and immediately, the area's surveillance network came to life. 

A small red symbol appeared in the corner of the screen, slowly rotating. 

Ajerndre lost some of his confidence right away. 

He knew what that meant. 

The soft, robotic voice of the District 43 public security system filled the space: 

"Area monitored. Irregular activity detected. Archiving interaction in progress." 

Mike chuckled quietly. 

"Did you really think you could force an illegal contract in a monitored perimeter, Ajerndre?" Mike's voice was low, but carried immense weight. 

The informant's expression soured. 

He knew District 43 had rules, and one of them was that no developer could be publicly coerced. 

"Big Z" tolerated a lot of things, but not idiots who drew unnecessary attention. 

And as if the universe had decided to sink Ajerndre even further... someone interrupted the conversation. 

"I'm hearing too much and don't like what I hear."

The voice came from the right, and Angie felt the weight of a presence as strong as Mike's. 

Another observer. 

A man with dark hair, almond-shaped eyes, and cold features crossed the street, hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on Ajerndre like a predator assessing a wounded animal. 

It was Kazuo, a veteran informant, who, despite being on the same level as Ajerndre, knew exactly how far he could go without getting himself in trouble. 

Angie didn't like him, but he hated Ajerndre more than she did. 

And that was enough. 

Ajerndre gritted his teeth, irritated. 

"This doesn't concern you, Kazuo," he said, trying to keep his tone steady. 

Kazuo raised an eyebrow, pretending to be surprised. 

"Oh? So, it wasn't you trying to extort someone who has protection from a Big Z guy?" 

Silence. 

Ajerndre forced a tense smile, but the sweat on his forehead began to shine. 

Kazuo continued: 

"Because, if it's what I'm thinking... I should report straight to the 'boss,' right?" 

Ajerndre stiffened. 

He couldn't afford to draw negative attention to himself. 

Angie knew at that moment that she had won. 

She relaxed her shoulders and took the lunchbox from Mike's hand, as if nothing had happened. 

"Well, it was nice chatting," Angie said, turning to Mike. "But we need to deliver the food to Rafa before he tries hunting a Jurupari on an empty stomach." 

Mike let out a rough laugh, knowing the game was won. 

"Yeah, and the way he is, I bet he's already thinking about eating some random plant from the forest." 

They turned and began walking, leaving Ajerndre alone in the mess he'd created. 

Kazuo stayed behind, just watching the other informant with an amused look. 

"If I were you, I'd start walking too, Ajerndre," he said casually. "I know Big Z's been running low on patience for mistakes lately." 

Angie didn't look back. 

But she knew Ajerndre was fuming with rage. 

And that made the taste of victory even sweeter. 

Angie didn't look back. But she felt it. The gaze burning into her back, full of unspoken promises. 

Ajerndre didn't forget defeats.