Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 164: A Group, After all…

Élisa’s enthusiasm hadn’t evaporated. It still pulsed beneath her skin, burned softly in her golden eyes — but by some miracle or sheer discipline, she had refrained from undressing in Dylan’s room.

For now.

"Hasn’t Dylan already seen more skin than that?" she asked suddenly, sounding thoughtful. Her voice rose into the room and hung there like lazy mist, clinging to nothing — and everything.

Maggie rolled her eyes in a slow, reluctant motion, as if even gravity was tired of helping her. Then she let her face fall into her palm, visibly drained.

"Circumstances are different," she finally replied, her fingers spread just enough to let one tired eye peek through. "And where we come from... showing more skin to a man usually means you love him. Or something like that."

Dylan didn’t move. He knew better than to speak. This was a moment to observe, catalog, breathe shallowly — like an animal cautious in a forest full of charming, unpredictable predators.

Élisa nodded slightly, as though she’d just learned a strange new rule in a foreign game. Then she let herself fall onto the bed, right by his legs. And without any regulation or finesse, she flopped backwards — headfirst — and landed against his stomach with the grace of a full sack of rice.

Dylan lost his breath, but said nothing.

His arms remained crossed behind his head. He stared at the ceiling. Intensely.

Élisa, her cheek pressed against his stomach, spoke with that quiet honesty that belonged only to her.

"It’s the same here too, isn’t it? Showing more skin, loving someone, all that..."

She looked up at him, half-sprawled, half-provocative, fully serious.

"But Dylan is special. He belongs to me."

"I hope I’m not interrupting anything too personal?" Maggie said loudly, clearing her throat in a way that only ever meant one thing: stop whatever’s happening before it gets worse.

Dylan didn’t even turn his head toward her. He kept staring at the ceiling, as if some cosmic truth was etched between two beams.

"No, no, stay. We were just about to ask you to judge an impromptu affection-ownership contest," he murmured, tone dry and sarcastic.

Élisa didn’t move a muscle. Her head still rested on his stomach, her barely grown hair like golden fuzz. She blinked slowly, as though this interruption was merely... inconvenient.

"Are you jealous, Maggie?" she asked, without a trace of malice. More like an innocent — or perfectly not-so-innocent — curiosity.

Maggie narrowed her eyes, her spine suddenly rigid, like an old demon had perched on her shoulder.

"I’m tired. Not jealous. There’s a difference."

Dylan allowed himself a small, discreet grin.

"Good. Fatigue makes you aggressive, not possessive. That’s useful to know with everything we’ve got coming."

He sat up slightly, forcing Élisa to roll to the side. She let it happen like a cat being nudged — too lazy to care.

"Alright. If I belong to someone — decoratively or otherwise — I’d at least like to know I’m being put to good use," he said, now sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, gaze slightly clouded. "Because believe me, I didn’t cross half the city and its perfumed sewers just to become someone’s personal pillow."

Élisa stretched lazily, arms over her head, as if to taunt the ceiling herself.

"You make a very good pillow, Dylan. And on top of that, you bring gifts."

Maggie, leaning against the wall, folded her arms.

"Now that Mister Pillow has found his voice, maybe we can finally talk about what you actually learned, before I fall asleep or someone decides to use you as a mattress."

Dylan sighed. But the smile stayed on his face.

"Alright. Enough of the bad jokes. Let’s talk money, looming wars, and dangerous secrets."

He tapped twice on the sack at his feet, the dull thud of fabric filled with precious things.

"Brace yourselves. What I’m about to say might cost you some sleep."

Dylan cleared his throat. Not to build up courage — but to set the rhythm. Create that gentle tension. The kind of silence where something big is either about to be revealed... or masterfully staged.

He’d rehearsed all this in his head. Dozens of times. On the stairs. Through alleyways. Even while walking across the creaking floorboard outside the room. He knew the score. Knew what Maggie hated to hear, what Élisa wanted to understand, and what needed to stay hidden.

Élisa, he already had in the palm of his hand. Maggie? Let’s say he held her — carefully. Just don’t squeeze too tight.

So he picked his words like daggers wrapped in velvet. And lied — perfectly.

Not a big lie. Just enough embellishment, enough silence, enough rearrangement to make it sound too detailed to be made up. And yet... Dylan was very imaginative.

"I was approached by two guards. Right at the gates to the High-Tier. Heavily armed. Too well-equipped for mere doormen."

He paused, eyes distant, as if reliving the moment. Then continued, more softly:

"I saw a door marked with a symbol... some kind of rune or seal. I couldn’t decipher it, but it reeked of sorcery. And then I met a man. Name’s Gael."

He’d intentionally skipped over the part where he was a glorified black-market delivery boy. Instead, he painted himself as a chosen messenger — carrying a rare artifact to a powerful buyer. A classier version of the mess he’d actually walked into.

But he didn’t flinch when describing what was true: Gael knew everything. Their names. Origins. Power level. The fact they weren’t spies or clueless travelers. Everything.

"He’s been watching us since we entered the city, I’m sure of it. Not a single step went unnoticed. He even mentioned... conversations we thought were private."

His expression darkened, voice dipping into something close to solemn:

"It was like he was telling me, point blank: you can’t escape me."

Maggie frowned, arms tightening across her chest. Élisa’s eyes sparkled — pure curiosity. Intrigued more by the danger than the details.

Dylan straightened a little. Changed tone. Less theatrical now. More precise. Political.

"Apparently, the County of Martissant is at war with Pilaf. An old dispute over central territory. The guilds and clans are mostly autonomous — they rarely step into noble affairs unless they’re forced to."

He glanced at both women in turn.

"And they’re short on Awakened. So they’re recruiting. Quietly. Not soldiers — mercenaries. Independent agents who can handle things battalions can’t."

A pause. Then a faint smile.

"And that’s where we come in."

He laid out the proposal, just as he’d heard it: work for Martissant. Good pay. Official coverage. Manufactured identities.

But he couldn’t just leave it at that. Not Dylan. He liked to spice things up — with just enough paranoia to be convincing.

He rested a hand on the sack, voice darker now:

"But I’ve got doubts. You know me. I don’t trust people steeped in the black market who offer you the world on a silver platter. I think that same man who can forge us new names... can also bury us."

This time, he looked straight at Maggie. Serious.

"One wrong word, one refusal, and suddenly — boom — we’re labeled Pilaf spies. And in this city... that kind of label doesn’t wash off."

Then he turned to Élisa, gentler:

"We might have a rare chance here. But it’s a rigged game. And no one’s going to hold our hand through it."

He leaned back slightly, then ended with a murmur:

"So what do we do now? We should decide this together, right? We’re a group, after all."

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