The Invisible Stains of an E-Rank

The alarm on the desk didn’t just ring; it rattled against the cheap wood, a harsh, metallic buzzing that felt like a needle poking straight into Ren’s brain.

He didn’t move for a long time. He just lay there under the thin blanket, staring blankly at the cracked plaster on his ceiling while the room slowly filled with the gray, dull light of early morning. With a heavy groan, he reached out, swung his arm, and slammed his hand down on the button. Silence flooded the small room, save for the faint sound of traffic from the city streets three floors below.

Ren slowly pushed himself up, his back popping in three different places. He sat on the edge of the mattress, letting his feet dangle over the cold linoleum floor. His muscles ached, a deep, heavy soreness that had become his permanent shadow over the last few months.

He rested his elbows on his knees and stared at his calloused palms. For a second, his mind drifted back to the small town he grew up in, far away from the neon lights and towering concrete skyscrapers of this city. He remembered hot afternoons spent running through open dirt fields with the neighborhood kids, playing makeshift games of soccer until the sun dipped below the horizon. Back then, nobody cared about ranks. They were just children. His mother would call him in for dinner, the smell of roasted rice and spices drifting through the front door, and his biggest worry in the world was whether he’d get to play again the next day. It had been so simple. So loud, warm, and bright.

Ren let out a short, bitter breath and rubbed his face with his hands.

"Wake up," he muttered to himself, the sound of his own rough voice breaking the quiet. "That kid is dead."

He stood up, his knees cracking as he forced his body to move. He walked over to the tiny, cramped bathroom, twisting the rusty faucet over the sink. He waited a few seconds, but the water stayed stubbornly lukewarm, never quite hitting the hot temperature he wanted. Whining softly under his breath, he splashed the water onto his face anyway, shivering as the cold shock cleared the last remnants of sleep from his eyes.

Looking into the cracked mirror, he grabbed his worn-out toothbrush. He looked completely exhausted. His dark hair was a messy, tangled bird's nest, and there were faint dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes.

"Another day of scrubbing floors," he mumbled around a mouthful of toothpaste, leaning against the sink. "Another day of picking up after people who think they’re gods."

He hated his job. He hated the city. Most of all, he hated the fact that because he was born an E-rank, this was the only kind of work he could get to keep a roof over his head. While the high-society elites spent their mornings in luxury high-rises, drinking expensive coffee and talking about their magical scripts, Ren had to get dressed in a plain, stain-resistant black jumpsuit.

He pulled the zipper up to his throat, grabbed his heavy duffel bag full of bleach, industrial brushes, and chemical sprays, and checked his reflection one last time. He looked exactly like what he was: a harmless, invisible cleaner.

With a deep sigh, Ren grabbed his keys, unlocked the door, and stepped out into the damp, rainy morning air, completely unaware that this would be the last normal day of his life.

The wet air hit his face like a slap, bringing with it the familiar smell of exhaust fumes and wet concrete. He walked down the metal fire escape stairs, his heavy boots making a dull clanking sound that was swallowed up by the noise of the waking city.

Everywhere he looked, the world was flashing with light. Giant digital billboards stretched up into the low-hanging clouds, showing off the flawless faces of A-rank and S-rank celebrities. They were advertising everything from high-end energy drinks that boosted soul scripts to luxury cars that only locked when they scanned a high-tier aura.

Ren kept his gaze fixed on the sidewalk, dodging the puddles that had formed in the cracks of the asphalt. He blended seamlessly into the crowd of morning commuters—just another low-tier worker heading off to a shift that paid barely enough to cover rent and a bowl of cheap noodles.

He reached the subway station, pushing through the rusted turnstiles that always groaned when an E-rank walked through. The train ride was forty minutes of being pressed against cold glass and smelling other people's damp raincoats. By the time the automated voice announced his stop in the Lower East District, Ren's shoulder was already throbbing from the weight of his duffel bag.

This part of the city didn't have the bright, pristine neon of the upper districts. Here, the signs were missing letters, flickering rhythmically in the dim alleys. It was the kind of place where high-ranking syndicates did exactly what they wanted, knowing the authorities wouldn't bother looking too closely.

Ren walked down a narrow side street until he saw the flickering hazard lights of a black sedan parked across the sidewalk. Standing near a heavy metal door was a man in a sharp tailored suit, looking entirely out of place among the overflowing trash bins.

The man was an enforcer for the local syndicate. Ren could feel the faint, oppressive pressure of his D-rank aura even from ten yards away. It wasn't strong enough to make a normal person faint, but it felt like a heavy weight sitting on Ren's chest.

"You're late," the enforcer said, his voice cutting through the sound of the drizzling rain. He didn't even look up from his phone.

"The subway had a delay," Ren replied, his voice entirely flat. He had learned a long time ago that apologizing to high-ranks just made them angry.

The enforcer finally looked up, his eyes scanning Ren's black jumpsuit and the handles of the scrub brushes sticking out of his bag. A flash of casual contempt crossed his face before he slid his phone into his pocket.

"The cleanup is on the fourth floor. Room 402," the enforcer said, tossing a key card toward Ren's chest. Ren caught it clumsily against his bag. "Some local idiot thought he could skim from the boss's ledger. The mess is fresh. Don't leave a single trace of blood or residue, and make sure you incinerate the clothes. If the public cleaners find anything, it's your neck. Understand?"

"Understood," Ren muttered.

"Good. Get to work, E-rank." The enforcer turned, sliding into the back seat of the warm sedan, leaving Ren alone on the wet pavement.

Ren looked at the plastic key card in his hand, then up at the dark, silent windows of the concrete building. He let out a slow, steady breath to steel his nerves, stepped up to the door, and swiped the card. The heavy lock clicked open, revealing a pitch-black hallway that smelled intensely of copper and burning ozone.

His shift had officially started.

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