Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 166: Too Early

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Chapter 166: Too Early

The day rose without brilliance, timidly.

Pale and trembling, the light filtered through the grimy inn curtains, painting the room in faded amber hues.

Dylan opened his eyes without moving. He knew exactly where he was, and what was resting on his stomach: the light, warm weight of Élisa’s head, still there, as if frozen in an endless dream. Her breathing was slow, steady. Calm. Like a sleeping child.

Maggie, for her part, had slumped against the wall and eventually dozed off there, arms crossed, face relaxed. She looked like a soldier fallen asleep between two watch posts. She slept like people who never let themselves sleep.

Dylan, on the other hand, had barely slept. Or if he had, it was the kind of stiff sleep that doesn’t repair anything. He had spent most of the night listening to the creaking wood, Élisa’s quiet breath, and the silence. Mostly the silence.

His eyes stared at the ceiling, where the night had inscribed itself in invisible lines.

The memories of the discussion returned one by one, slowly, like a headache forgotten the night before but now demanding its place.

A whisper escaped his throat, rough like burned paper:

"Fuck... what a long night."

He wasn’t expecting an answer. Not even from himself.

He just wanted the walls to hear it.

Dylan felt someone approaching before he heard the light footsteps on the creaking wood. A presence hesitating to exist, like a poorly formed thought. Then finally, a hand stopped in front of the door, suspended in one last moment of doubt.

He spoke before she could knock.

"Already awake!..."

On the other side, he sensed a discreet startle.

The wood barely groaned as a foot stepped back. Then the person knocked anyway. Just once. As if to make sure they were still there.

"The redhead. Always so pragmatic," he muttered.

A sigh answered from behind the wall.

Dylan slipped gently out of bed, carefully lifted Élisa’s head, and laid it on the pillow as if it were made of warm glass. She didn’t stir. Only a light sigh escaped her lips. He looked at her for a moment, then turned and went to the door.

"Good morning, sir," said the redheaded maid, upright, true to herself. That disinterested expression carved into her face, her hair tied up with no frills, her green eyes staring at some imaginary point around chest height. They shone with nothing.

"My God," said Dylan, placing a hand on the doorframe, "I didn’t expect the privilege of such a beautiful sunrise. But smile a little, dear—my show’s painfully lacking in sparkle."

She looked at him. For a moment. Said nothing. And that was already a response.

"I’m here to inform you that you have an appointment this morning. A contact from the High-Tier will come for you in less than an hour."

"An hour?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow. "That’s almost romantic. You’re giving me time to put on some perfume."

"Time to wash would already be something," she replied without blinking, then gave a slight bow. "Food will be brought in five minutes. Unless you choose to come downstairs."

And she turned on her heels, walking away with that neutral, composed gait that never let you know whether she despised or admired what she left behind.

Dylan closed the door with a sigh, more for symbolism than privacy. He stayed there a moment, hand on the wood, thoughtful.

"Less than an hour... It’s getting ridiculous."

He turned toward the bed. Maggie was still asleep. Élisa had rolled onto her side, the pouch full of gold nestled in her arms like a stuffed toy clutched in a dream.

He sighed.

He ran a hand over his face. Even that gesture felt too ambitious for this hour. His joints cracked softly as he stretched, like his body itself refused to admit it had to be alive now. And more than that: lucid.

His gaze slid toward the little wash basin in the corner of the room, perched on a crooked piece of furniture. The inn had a sense of bare necessity: a pitcher, a clean cloth, and the illusion of privacy. He approached without haste, wetted his hands, and splashed his face. The water was lukewarm—probably because the room itself stifled the morning chill. He would have preferred something icy. To tear off the last threads of sleep. And maybe some of his doubts.

Behind him, Élisa stirred. A rustle of sheets. Then a peaceful exhale, like a beast dreaming of a world without walls.

He lingered over the basin, water dripping from his chin, his gaze lost in the rippling reflection. He hated himself a little, sometimes. Not for what he did—but for what he might do if he had nothing left to lose.

He grabbed the towel, dried his face, and returned to the bed. Maggie hadn’t moved. She still slept like someone who isn’t used to it. The kind of stolen sleep, too heavy to be deep.

He crouched in front of her.

"Hey," he said softly. "Commander. Day’s up. And so’s the enemy."

No reaction. So he reached out and tapped her knee. Once, then twice.

"Maggie... I don’t know how, but I’ve got a meeting in the High-Tier. We need to eat, brush our fangs, and pretend to be civilized people. They’ll be here in an hour."

This time, she groaned. A deep-in-the-throat sound, no words. Dylan smiled.

"I’ll take that as a yes," he said, rising to his feet.

He turned to Élisa. She was opening her eyes lazily, looking as awake as a cat in the sun.

"Didn’t you say we had two weeks to think?" she murmured, not moving. "What do they want so early?"

"That was probably true," he replied with a shrug. "But we’re in his palm, Élisa. So we go where the hand pushes, right?"

She stretched with a long yawn, arms overhead, shirt rising slightly above her belly. Then she sat at the edge of the bed, still clutching the pouch of gold.

"They’re coming?"

"Yeah. An hour. Less, now. I give you three choices: breakfast, hygiene, or faked enthusiasm. But not all three. I don’t have time."

"I’ll take the gold," she said, getting up barefoot, already rummaging through the bag. "I know some very special places in town. Let me do the shopping."

Dylan nodded with a sigh. fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓

"Fine. Just don’t blow it all on candy."

"Where’s the respect, young man? I could be your mother!" she shot back bitterly—but with humor.

Maggie had gotten up too, hair a mess, her face still creased with sleep, but carrying the bearing of someone who’d never truly allowed herself to rest. She grabbed a clean shirt from the chair and tossed it at Dylan.

"Get dressed. You’re representing the group. At least try to look credible. You already have the face of a guy no one takes seriously in a tavern, and in the High-Tier..."

"I’m told I’m charming," he said, catching the garment. "So I’m not too worried."

"You are," she replied flatly. "Just not enough to go there smelling like stables and sweat."

A few minutes later, as he finished dressing, there was another knock at the door.

This time, it was a tray. Warm bread, hard-boiled eggs, some dried meat, and three apples of questionable color. Élisa pounced like a fox on a field mouse. Maggie chose an apple, studied it, then bit in with resignation.

Dylan ate little. He was hungry, but his throat felt tight.

A contact was coming. A stranger. In a city full of watching eyes. One more step into a game where every move could be fatal.

And yet, that little voice in his head whispered:

You want to see what’s on the other side, don’t you?

So he closed his eyes for a moment.

And waited for the trap to come to him.

There was a knock at the door. Two firm knocks. Neither impatient nor hesitant.

Dylan straightened slowly, gave one last glance at Élisa, who was chewing a bite too big for her fine mouth, her cheeks puffed like a rodent. Maggie sat in a corner, elbows on knees, one hand holding an apple, the other already on the hilt of her dagger — more out of habit than fear.

He opened the door.

The man on the threshold wasn’t impressive at first glance. Medium height, lean as a reed, dark skin marked by old scars, features hard and carved in silence. He wore a perfectly fitted beige tunic, spotless, dust-free. Too clean for the slums, too plain for High-Tier arrogance. He wore a black glove on his left hand. Just one. And a smile that wasn’t one.

His eyes were ash-grey, almost dull. And yet, they saw everything. Dylan felt it immediately—that silent inspection that undresses your mind without permission.

"Dylan, I presume," the man said, voice calm, steady, low in tone.

Dylan nodded, standing straight.

"And you’re the contact?"

"I’m the messenger," he replied. "The intermediary. The name doesn’t matter."

"You must’ve had one at birth, though," Élisa called from the bed, her mouth half-full.

The man tilted his head slightly, still not smiling.

"At birth, they didn’t ask for my opinion. Since then, I choose the silences I keep."

Maggie raised an eyebrow, mentally filing the man into a well-labeled box: pro, dangerous, talks by choice.

Dylan crossed his arms.

"So? What’s the plan?"

The man stepped aside, inviting him with a simple nod.

"You’re coming with me. Alone. The rest of the group stays here. The meeting is confidential. My employer wants to speak to the pack’s mind, not its echo."

Dylan turned to Maggie.

"I guess I’m the mind, then."

"Don’t get cocky, mind-boy, or we’ll all end up floating in the sewers," she grumbled.

"I’ll pretend to be humble," he promised.

He quickly grabbed his jacket, glanced at the half-empty tray, then at the messenger.

"Shall we?"

"Follow me. And save your questions for those who have answers."

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