We Lease The Kraken! - A LitRPG Pet Shop System Story.

A young man, barely in his twenties, sprawled across a threadbare, moth-eaten couch shoved haphazardly against the peeling walls of an abandoned apartment. The faint scent of mildew clung to the air, mingling with the sharp tang of stale liquor, and something acrid burned into the walls. Dust motes danced in the faint slivers of light piercing the grime-streaked windows, framing the room in a half-lit haze.

The young man's wiry frame, all sharp angles, and lean muscle told the story of a life spent running — chasing something or fleeing everything. His short, messy brown hair jutted out in defiance of any effort to tame it, a fitting match for the crooked smirk that usually played across his face. That smirk, a weapon of confidence he'd learned to wield like a shield, was absent today. In its place was a wince as he pressed an ice pack to the side of his head.

"WILL YOU TURN THAT BLOODY THING DOWN?!" he bellowed, the sound ricocheting painfully inside his skull. He clamped his eyes shut and groaned as the music thundering through the paper-thin walls dulled, though it still pulsed with enough bass to vibrate the couch beneath him.

"Sorry, boss!" came the muffled reply, followed by the clatter of something heavy toppling over.

Jonny 'Whiplash' Johnson grumbled under his breath but sank back against the couch, too battered and worn to deal with the chaos surrounding him.

"Still feeling like crap, huh, Jonny?"

The voice was sharp and clear, cutting through the haze of his migraine. Jonny cracked one eye open and scowled at the figure leaning against the doorway.

"I told you, it's Whiplash now," he snapped.

Nicole — Nic to most in their ragtag crew — arched a brow, her lips curving in a wry smirk. Her curly raven hair framed a heart-shaped face that would have looked soft if not for the sharp glint of her bright blue eyes. Dark, olive-toned skin gave her an almost doll-like appearance, a trait she was well-versed in using to manipulate her marks. Though the weight of her crossed arms made it clear she wasn't here to play.

"Right. Whiplash," Nic drawled, her tone as dry as the cracked paint peeling from the walls. "You know, there's a reason only the best Gifted bother with monikers. Keep this up, and you'll be lucky if someone doesn't notice you… for all the wrong reasons."

Jonny waved a hand lazily, the motion dismissive. "Fake it till you make it. Isn't that what we always say? Maybe I want someone to notice, Nic. Maybe it's time we got the recognition we deserve." His crooked grin briefly appeared before fading under the weight of his headache.

Nic's arms fell to her sides as she pushed off the doorway. Her boots scuffed against the wooden floor, her movements measured. "This isn't a game, Jonny. Speed-cores might be rare, but that doesn't make you untouchable. You've seen what the Oddfather does with new Gifted. Do you really want to end up as cannon fodder in his next turf war?"

"I'm not stupid," Jonny muttered, though his tone carried a defensive edge. "That's why I have to prove myself. I'm not just some grunt, Nic. I need him to see that."

Her gaze softened, just for a moment, before her expression hardened again. "Is that why you went after the baker? Even after I told you it was a dumb plan?"

Jonny's jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his eyes fixed stubbornly on a crack in the wall.

Nic's tone sharpened. "Jonny, I told you that man is dangerous."

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Please. Don't tell me you believe those old rumors."

Her voice rose, cutting through his dismissive tone. "He threw Carlos through a window! Three of our guys are laid up with broken bones, and you're sitting here nursing a concussion! What about that isn't dangerous?" She jabbed a finger toward the ice pack in his hand. "You could have died…" she said, her voice softer.

Jonny shrugged, his lips curling into a faint sneer. "And yet, here I am. Ol' Ulrick didn't even finish us off himself — hired some street rats to dump us in an alley. He's soft, Nic." He straightened, though the motion made him wince. "Besides, it wasn't like most of that was him. It was that other punk."

Nic folded her arms and tilted her head. "Oh, right. The mysterious Gifted who just happened to show up at the bakery while you lot were being idiots. Sure, Jonny."

He glared at her, his grip tightening around the ice pack. "My point is, people are so scared of the baker's reputation, they've turned him into some kind of boogeyman. But he's not. All he needs is a little… pushing." Jonny's eyes lit up with a dangerous gleam. "Think about it, Nic. We take the shop he's been holding onto for years and offer it to the Oddfather. We'll skyrocket through the ranks. Hell, I might even make captain."

Nic threw her hands in the air. "You know what? Fine! Get yourself killed. Just remember, I'm the one who'll have to clean up your mess, and you'd better believe I'll drag your sorry ass back from hell if I have to."

Jonny chuckled, leaning back against the couch. "That's how it's always been, huh?"

Nic pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something under her breath. "I came here to tell you the boys are back with lunch."

Jonny's eyes darted to an ornate silver pocket watch he pulled from his pocket. "Lunch already?"

Nic rolled her eyes. "You've been up here all morning, idiot." Her gaze flicked to the watch, one brow arching. "You still have that thing? I'd have thought you'd sell it by now. A piece like that could bring in solid credits."

Jonny clutched the watch to his chest. "Why would I? It's my good luck charm."

Nic's expression flattened. "Just because you triggered after lifting it off some poor girl doesn't make it lucky. Sell it before it 'disappears.' Ma'am needs a new skincare kit if she's going to keep patching you morons up."

Jonny narrowed his eyes. "What happened to that rich guy you were fleecing? Get him to buy your junk. You're not getting my watch." He clutched the watch to his chest protectively.

Nic laughed, a bright, mocking sound, as she turned toward the door. "We'll see," she called over her shoulder, vanishing down the hall with a final wave. "We'll see."

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Saturday, September 24th, 2253.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Tell Tales Apartments - 3:10pm

39 hours - 26 minutes remain.

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The walk back to his apartment was uneventful, but the weight of the last few hours bore heavily on Jeremiah's shoulders. His mind churned with questions he wasn't ready to answer: had he ever truly understood why Sarah made the choices she had? Was Prima City, the home he'd clung to for so long, nothing more than a crumbling façade masking decay? Each thought drained him further, leaving him hollow by the time he reached his door.

Inside, the stillness greeted him like an old friend. Jeremiah shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the dining room chair before collapsing onto the couch. With a heavy sigh, he flicked a thick yellow folder onto the coffee table, where it landed with an accusing thud.

From across the room, Billy stirred. The tiny kraken poked his head out of the miniature pirate ship in his enclosure, his tentacles curling excitedly as he waved in Jeremiah's direction. Jeremiah managed a tired smile and lifted his hand in a lazy greeting.

Billy hesitated, tilting his head before making his move. Pulling himself onto the gutter-like ledge Jeremiah had recently installed, the creature navigated its length with the precision of a seasoned acrobat. When he reached the far end, he plopped into his old fishbowl, sitting on a table by the couch, the water sloshing softly as he settled in.

Jeremiah couldn't help but chuckle. For all the effort he'd put into upgrading Billy's enclosure — complete with toys, enrichment activities, and ample space — the kraken still preferred the cramped familiarity of his original home. At least when Jeremiah was around. Installing the ledge had been an act of pure self-preservation; Jeremiah had grown tired of mopping up the trails of water left behind every time Billy made the trek on his own.

Billy hoisted himself over the lip of his bowl and extended a tentacle toward Jeremiah. Amused, Jeremiah leaned forward and gently tapped the tiny limb with his finger. In an instant, Billy wrapped his tentacle around Jeremiah's hand, his warm grip radiating comfort. Strange for an aquatic creature, but not unwelcomed.

"I'm fine, buddy," Jeremiah murmured, though the words felt heavy on his tongue. "Just… a long day."

Billy tightened his grip, then, with surprising strength, pulled himself onto Jeremiah's palm. The creature's warmth seeped into Jeremiah's skin, a soothing balm for his frayed nerves. He sat there for several minutes, absently stroking Billy's smooth head while the kraken swayed gently, as if caught in an invisible current.

The quiet moment couldn't last. Jeremiah's gaze drifted, his smile fading as his thoughts turned inward. "You know," he began, his voice soft and distant, "I always knew Prima City wasn't perfect."

Billy paused mid-sway, his gaze lifting to meet Jeremiah's.

"It's just... I didn't think it mattered," Jeremiah continued. "You hear about villains scheming, about gangs pushing too far and crossing the wrong hero. But those things always felt far away, like noise in the background. A problem, sure, but never my problem."

Billy's tentacles curled into inquisitive loops, prompting a faint chuckle from Jeremiah.

"Even here, I thought I could keep my head down, stay out of the way. If I saved enough, maybe I could get back to Central." His voice grew quieter. "Or maybe I was just fooling myself."

A scowl darkened his face. "Nothing's ever that simple, is it? If it were, who would choose to live out here?"

The bitterness ebbed, replaced by something softer, more resigned. "Sarah saw the truth. She always did. This city... it's just red paint over a rotten apple. That's why she tried so hard to do what she did." He paused, his fingers brushing over Billy's tentacles. "At least, that's what I want to believe. But I'm not her. I can't be her."

Billy's warmth seemed to pull him back from the edge. He raised his hand, letting the little kraken slide back into the water. "But that doesn't mean I can't do something," he said firmly.

Jeremiah wasn't a hero. Let alone a Hero. He wasn't going to tear the corruption out of Prima City by the roots or stand as some paragon of justice. But maybe he could help one girl, couldn't he? Sure, she'd been rude and combative, but was that her? Or was that just Prima City — the part she'd been forced to endure? Maybe, just maybe, he could show her the version of the city part of him still wanted to believe in. The one Sarah wanted to build.

No, he couldn't be Sarah.

"But I can do what I can," he whispered, echoing his words to Mero.

Jeremiah leaned forward, his fingers brushing the edge of the thick yellow folder lying on the coffee table. He hesitated for a moment, staring at the weathered cover as if it might bite. Then, with a deep breath, he flipped it open.

Inside was a treasure trove of meticulously compiled information. Ulrick's handiwork spanned every facet of Jeremiah's "target" and the crew surrounding him — addresses of hideouts scrawled in bold ink, crude sketches of key members with hastily jotted notes about their roles, even the work schedules of the few who held legitimate jobs. But what caught Jeremiah's attention most was a detailed description of Amani's focus — a silver pocket watch, its ornate casing described with such care he could practically see the glint of its polished metal in his mind's eye. A keepsake from her father, according to the djinn.

Jeremiah had questioned Ulrick about the odd, movie-prop look of the dossier. It resembled an old-school police report, complete with photographs and typewriter-style text.

Ulrick had only grinned, shrugging as if he'd been caught red-handed. "I've always wanted to make one," he'd said.

Jeremiah had to admit it was helpful — frustratingly so. Left to his own devices, he wouldn't have gathered half this information, let alone thought to, in what time remained. But as he flipped through the pages, exhaustion seeped into his bones. He didn't have the mental bandwidth to ponder Ulrick's motivations or methods right now.

For the next hour, he pored over the file. Finally, he dropped it onto the coffee table with a loud sigh, dragging his hands down his face.

"I'm so screwed…" he muttered, the words muffled by his palms.

It wasn't that this Jonny character and his crew were particularly dangerous or skilled. They were, on paper, a small-time operation cobbled together from street orphans and petty criminals — the kind of castoffs that didn't have the chops to join a major gang. Hell, Ulrick's report estimated that more than half of the group's members were kids no older than fourteen. Only a handful of younger adults ever stuck around at a time, before moving on to better things.

But for all the experience and skill the crew lacked, so did he.

He leaned back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. "I'm no phantom thief," he groaned. "How the hell am I supposed to steal this thing back?"

The idea of intimidation briefly crossed his mind. His Tempered by the Waves skill had proven effective before, making him stronger and more durable than your average human — borderline Gifted, even. But this wasn't a group of school bullies. These kids had been hardened by life on the streets, where strength was met with defiance or cunning, not fear. Worse, they had numbers. Jeremiah was confident he could handle three or four thugs, but any more than that? A recipe for disaster.

And then there was Jonny.

The dossier described him as a classic street thug, the kind you could find in any city's underbelly — strong enough to lead, reckless enough to stay small-time. His oversized ambition was the only thing that kept him from joining a major gang, where he'd be just another grunt.

But something had changed.

According to Ulrick's notes, Jonny had recently triggered, 'awakening' as a Deviant. A 'super,' as some liked to label them. Since then, he'd been trying to curry favor with local heavyweights, especially a notorious boss known as the Oddfather. If his abilities and talents were impressive enough, he might just land a spot at the big kids' table.

That power made Jonny dangerous.

Jeremiah swallowed hard, the memory of their last encounter flashing through his mind. If Ulrick hadn't stepped in, that day would have ended with more than just bruised pride.

He needed an edge.

He needed more power.

"Mero," Jeremiah called, his voice cutting through the apartment's stillness.

The reply came from behind him, smug and familiar. "What's up, kid?"

Jeremiah twisted around to find Mero lounging on Billy's ledge, feet dangling as he peered down with a sharp grin.

Jeremiah frowned. "You said this skill — Tempered by the Waves — came from the System, right?"

Mero gave a nonchalant wave of his hand. "Partly," he said. "I told ya, the System refined it. Took what was already there and polished it up." He gestured toward Billy, who waved back cheerfully.

Jeremiah nodded slowly, his thoughts churning. The System didn't conjure something from nothing. It built on a foundation, turning raw potential into something tangible.

His eyes narrowed as a new determination flickered in their depths. "What else can it do?"

Mero didn't answer immediately. Instead, his grin stretched wider, sharp and knowing, until it looked like it might split his face.