The stink in the tunnel was different today.
Not stronger, not worse—just different. Like something had changed overnight. Less waste rot. More sweat. Musk. Predator scent, maybe.
Tyrunt didn't seem to care.
He moved ahead in his usual pace—sniff, stomp, twitch, tail flick. Orion followed him through the narrowing pipe, headlamp dimmed low to keep reflections down.
No chalk markings today. No garbage tags. This tunnel wasn't mapped.
Good. That meant fewer scavengers had worked it already.
The first kill was easy.
Rattata.
It scurried out of a pile of half-rotted tarp and didn't even turn before Tyrunt had it by the spine. Snap. Dead.
Five credits.
Orion pocketed the tail and moved on.
The second came from above.
It launched from a broken drainpipe, aiming directly for Orion's head. He ducked. Tyrunt jumped up and intercepted it mid-air, slammed it down so hard the body bounced twice.
Tail number two.
And then they found the nest.
It was tucked under a collapsed grate where runoff pooled dark and slow. The tunnel here was wider. Tyrunt stopped walking.
Then he bristled.
Movement ahead.
Orion raised a hand. "Wait."
Three Rattata burst out at once.
Tyrunt didn't wait anymore.
He caught the first by the ribcage and flung it. The second went for Orion, but he sidestepped and kicked it into the tunnel wall. The third disappeared into the darkness.
They'd clean it out later.
He turned back to the nest, flipping the second tail into his pouch. Tyrunt was already growling low, staring at the pile.
Then something stepped out of it.
It wasn't purple.
It was brown. Broad. Scarred across the muzzle.
Big yellow fangs. Fat tail like a whip.
Raticate.
It didn't bark.
It just looked at them.
Like it wasn't worried.
Orion reached for his signal, but Tyrunt didn't wait.
The clash was messy.
Tyrunt struck first, fangs aimed for the shoulder. The Raticate ducked low and bit into his foreleg—hard.
Orion saw blood hit the stone.
Tyrunt howled and twisted, slamming the rat into a wall, then lunged again with a full-body tackle. This time, he got the upper jaw locked.
Crunch.
The sound made Orion's stomach shift.
The Raticate twitched once. Then went still.
Orion crouched and cut the tail clean.
This one was thick. Tougher than the others. Would go for more.
He looked at the corpse again.
"That… was not supposed to happen."
He wasn't talking to Tyrunt.
He was just stunned.
This sewer. This nowhere. This pile of garbage—and something had evolved here.
That took drive. Hunger. Something deeper than instinct.
Something close to ambition.
That was the part that bothered him.
They returned the tail. Fifty credits. No questions.
Then Orion went to wash off the worst of the sewer grime.
He didn't speak. Tyrunt didn't either.
They'd done the job.
But the day wasn't done yet.
The blast of steam from the alley caught Orion's attention first. Then the shriek of metal being hit hard—twice—and a barked command from deeper in the smoke.
He moved toward it, cautious.
Tyrunt followed, low to the ground, teeth bared.
When the second burst came—clean and sharp and tinted faint blue—Orion caught a glimpse through the haze: a sleek figure weaving between trash bins, its movements fast and fluid. A Buizel. Slim, strong, no hesitation.
A battle, clearly.
He almost turned back.
Then Tyrunt growled, sharp and aggressive. He wasn't stalking. He was reacting.
Orion tried to hold him back—"Wait—!"—but the dragon was already moving.
Tyrunt slammed into the Buizel without warning.
No signal. No rules. Just teeth and weight and fury.
The Buizel's trainer jerked sideways, eyes wide. "Whoa—HEY!"
Buizel yelped, staggered, then twisted and countered with a hydro burst so fast it blasted Tyrunt straight into a wall.
The impact cracked brick. Tyrunt didn't move.
Orion rushed forward. "Call it off!"
The other trainer had already whistled. Buizel pulled back, circling.
"Is that thing even yours?" the trainer snapped.
Orion crouched beside Tyrunt. "Yes. I didn't—he wasn't supposed to—"
"Then control him."
The trainer was taller, maybe sixteen, maybe seventeen. Black jacket, gym band on one shoulder. His voice was sharp but not panicked. Just annoyed.
Orion stood slowly, letting Tyrunt catch his breath.
"Sorry. He thought you were the threat."
"He's lucky I train for speed, not damage," the other said. "Another second and he'd be paste."
Orion didn't argue.
The Buizel stood by its trainer, tense but calm. It didn't look smug. Just focused.
"I'll get him out of here," Orion said.
The trainer nodded once. "Do that."
Back at the ledge above the street, Orion watched Tyrunt nurse a bruised jaw.
"You thought you were untouchable," he said, voice flat.
Tyrunt didn't respond. But he didn't look away either.
Orion opened his notebook. Started writing again.