Chapter 167: The Ghost Of A Touch
April stood completely frozen on the porch, her hand gripping the phone so tightly the edges dug into her palm. Her mind had honestly just completely short-circuited.
A forehead kiss.
It wasn’t a tactical maneuver. It was very harmless, and yet, it felt so dangerous.
In her past life, the only physical contact she received from a man was a hand to walk up a tall rebel, that was all. And she didn’t even feel anything from it because all she had in mind was how to get through that obstacle and pass the next.
And of course, there was that cold hand that pushed her shoulders to the pole while her hands were being tied by a zip tie.
And even before the apocalypse, there was nothing like that. In the Morgans’ house this affection that these men showed her was absent.
Her skin had been conditioned to expect pain, not a lingering, completely gentle pressure that smelled faintly of cedar wood and summer wind, or musk and cigar. Not even the clean scent of ozone, ink and crisp papers.
She stared blindly at the closing screen of her phone, her thumb hovering uselessly over the display.
A strange, unfamiliar heat flared right where his lips had pressed against her skin, radiating outward until even her ears felt slightly warm.
Her chest tightened, her lungs protesting against a sudden, erratic shift in her respiratory rhythm.
Alexander...
"Alright," he had said, his voice a little rough around the edges as he took a step back to give her space. He had shoved his hands deep into his pockets, though his blue eyes had remained fixed on her face, bright with a sudden, breathless anxiety. "I’ll let you get ready for your market run. Don’t want to mess up your efficiency, Miss Seer."
April forced her fingers to loosen their grip on the phone. She didn’t look at him. She actively refused to track his expression, knowing that if she parsed the raw emotion in his face right now, it would only clutter her understanding further.
"Your actions were highly inefficient," she muttered, her voice coming out a fraction stiffer than usual.
Without waiting for his response, she spun on her heel and walked through the glass doors of the villa, the heavy panels clicking shut behind her like a barrier.
She marched straight up to her quarters, her mind fiercely battling to re-establish its composure. It was just skin contact. A burst of endorphins triggered by an unexpected stimulus. Nothing more.
By the time she had bathed, changed into her dress, and slipped her black blazer over her shoulders, she had successfully beaten the sensation down into a quiet corner of her consciousness.
She had more important things to take care of tonight. She could not afford to let a single blonde heir throw her off her axis. And same went for the other black haired and red haired men.
...
The black market was entering its second consecutive night, and the frantic hype surrounding the ’miracle water’ had reached a fever pitch across the city’s hidden networks.
However, April had no intention of sitting inside the VIP auction box again to watch the billionaires fight over glass vials.
She had already left the bulk distribution, the security protocols, and the bidding operations entirely in the hands of Nat’s executive managers.
Tonight, her focus was entirely dedicated to her own system advancement: the Eye of Destiny.
Deep within the upper sector of the underground black market complex—far away from the roaring auction halls, tucked into a crowded, stone-walled alleyway filled with illegal relic traders, untraceable data brokers, and rare gem merchants—a small, unassuming stall had been set up.
The space was minimal. A simple wooden table draped in a dark velvet cloth, two sturdy chairs, and a flawless, glowing crystalline orb resting directly in the center of the table to serve as a focal point.
April sat behind the table, her posture perfectly straight.
To ensure her absolute privacy and safety, she wore the exact same black masquerade mask she had worn the night before. Nat had been incredibly strict about the security parameters before she left the G-Wagon, his voice dropping its usual teasing edge.
"The black market is a pit of rabid wolves, sweetheart. Even now, while the laws of the surface world are still intact, this place operates on blood and leverage. Once those rich bastards realize what your eyes can actually see, they won’t try to buy a reading—they’ll try to lock you in a basement and harvest your brain. Keep the mask on, and let my guards stand at the edge of the alley."
April agreed with his assessment. She had no desire to expose her true face to the criminal elite anyway.
The only issue was the foot traffic.
One hour passed. Then two.
A steady stream of wealthy patrons, bodyguards, and underground brokers paced past her velvet-covered table, their eyes briefly sweeping over the crystalline orb and the masked woman sitting silently behind it. But not a single person stopped.
April remained patient, her hands resting calmly in her lap. She understood the reality of the trade.
In a lawless, dark network built on concrete data, physical weapons, and high-tier smuggling, a ’fortune-telling’ stall looked like nothing more than a cheap, fraudulent gimmick.
These people dealt in hard numbers and brutal leverage; they considered seers and tarot readings to be a fictional hearsay meant for amusement parks or gullible tourists on the surface.
She wasn’t going to waste her breath to beg for attention. If they chose to walk past her, they were simply filtering themselves out of her survival matrix.
Just as the clock crawled past 9:00 PM, the steady rhythm of footsteps in the alleyway slowed down directly in front of her table.
April lifted her head, her eyes locking onto her very first potential customer through the narrow slits of her black mask.
It was an old man.
This old man wore a deceptively simple, dark gray coat, but the fine silk lining and the heavy, custom-made silver cane gripped in his withered right hand signaled a level of immense, quiet wealth.
His face was deeply lined with age, his breath carrying a faint, rattling wheeze as he stared down at the black velvet cloth and the clear orb with a mixture of profound exhaustion and deep skepticism.
"A seer in a pit of thieves," the old man noted, his voice raspy and thin as he tapped his silver cane against the stone floor. "Tell me, masked lady... do you actually sell truth here, or are you just another street magician trying to skim pocket change off the desperate?"
"Why don’t you find it out yourself?" April asked, her flat voice cutting through the damp air of the alleyway without a single shred of defensive edge.
She didn’t lean forward, nor did she gesture toward the empty chair across from her. Her dark eyes remained perfectly steady behind the black mask. "One cannot convince another with mere words if their mind has already been made up."