Boss? What boss?

  The question ricocheted through my skull like a pinball, bouncing off every corner of my brain. My mind went into full panic mode, rapidly flipping through every wiki page, every forum post, every piece of Path of Exemplar lore I'd ever consumed.

  Roxam didn't have a boss. Roxam was the boss. He was the leader of the Venom Syndicate, the big bad of Act 1, the guy who commanded an entire criminal organization with enough resources to launch a full-scale assault on Allstone Academy. He didn't answer to anyone. He was the final authority, the top of the food chain, the-

  Oh.

  Oh.

  The realization hit me like a bucket of ice water. This wasn't sixteen years after Roxam left the Academy. This was way earlier. Maybe right after he'd been expelled. Maybe even just a few months into his criminal career. This was Roxam before he became Roxam, when he was still just another street-level thug trying to make a name for himself in the underworld.

  Which meant he absolutely could have a boss. Probably several bosses, considering how criminal hierarchies worked. You didn't just wake up one day and decide to run a major crime syndicate. You had to work your way up, prove yourself, build connections, eliminate rivals...

  My hands started to sweat. The wiki had barely covered this period of Roxam's life. There were maybe three paragraphs total about his rise to power, and most of that was vague flavor text about "establishing himself in the criminal underworld" and "eliminating those who stood in his way." Nothing concrete. Nothing useful. Certainly nothing about who he worked for or what jobs he pulled or-

  "Roxam! You drunk again?"

  The voice from the other side of the door cut through my spiraling thoughts. It sounded impatient, rough, the kind of voice that belonged to someone who'd seen too many bar fights and won most of them.

  I took a breath. Then another. The panic started to recede, replaced by something else. Something familiar.

  Calm. Focus. Confidence.

  "I'm coming!" I yelled back, surprised at how naturally Roxam's gravelly voice came out of my throat.

  I can do this.

  The thought settled into my mind with absolute certainty. Because this was what I did. This was my specialty. I was a master roleplayer. I'd stayed in character through twelve-hour D&D sessions. I'd improvised my way through situations where I had no idea what was happening but managed to bluff so convincingly that even the DM bought it. I'd played characters with complex backstories, conflicting motivations, and intricate personality quirks without breaking character once.

  Roxam was just another character. A character I knew intimately, having played through his entire storyline multiple times from the other side. I knew his mannerisms, his speech patterns, his philosophy, his goals. I could channel that. I could be that.

  I just needed to look the part.

  My eyes scanned the room, cataloging the sparse furnishings. There, by the door: leather boots, worn but sturdy, with buckles up the sides. I grabbed them and shoved my feet in, lacing them quickly. They fit perfectly, which made sense given this was technically my body now.

  Hanging on a hook by the door was a long blue overcoat, the color faded from what had probably once been a rich cobalt to something closer to slate. I pulled it on, working the buttons up the front with fingers that felt more coordinated than they had any right to be. Muscle memory, maybe. Roxam's muscle memory. The coat had a belt that cinched at the waist, and I fastened it, feeling the weight settle across my shoulders.

  Better. More substantial. More like a person and less like a corpse that had forgotten to lie down.

  Next to the bed, leaning against the nightstand, was a scabbard. And in that scabbard was a longsword that looked like it could bisect a man without slowing down. The blade was visible at the top of the sheath: plain, utilitarian steel with no fancy engravings or decorative flourishes. A working weapon. A killing weapon.

  I picked it up, surprised at how natural it felt in my hands. The weight was familiar somehow, the balance perfect. I clipped it to my belt, adjusting it so it hung at the proper angle for a quick draw.

  One more look in the mirror.

  The figure staring back at me looked... almost right. The boots, the coat, the sword; these were elements I recognized from the game's character model. Roxam's signature aesthetic. Dark, practical, vaguely military in a way that suggested someone who'd had formal training before everything went to hell.

  But something was missing.

  The mask.

  In every cinematic, every cutscene, every promotional image, Roxam wore that iconic skull mask. It was one of his most defining features. The mask was enchanted, too; when you looted it from his corpse after defeating him, it had incredible stats. Fire resistance, intimidation bonuses, some kind of fear aura effect that made weaker enemies hesitate in combat.

  More importantly, it covered his face. The face that was so horrifically disfigured that NPCs would literally recoil when they saw it.

  So where the hell was it?

  I searched the room frantically, yanking open the single drawer in the nightstand (empty except for a half-melted candle), checking under the bed (just dust and what looked like a dead rat), even patting down the walls in case there was some kind of hidden compartment (there wasn't).

  Nothing.

  Then the obvious answer occurred to me, and I wanted to slap myself for not thinking of it sooner.

  He didn't have it yet.

  This was the past. Years before the game's events. Roxam probably hadn't acquired the mask yet. Hell, for all I knew, obtaining that mask was part of some quest or storyline I'd never seen because I'd only ever encountered him after he already had it.

  Great. Just great.

  I needed something to cover my face, though. In the game, Roxam never showed his disfigurement unless he was specifically trying to terrify someone. It was a character trait, part of his whole deal. The mysterious villain who hid behind the skull mask, whose true face was a horror that even hardened criminals flinched from.

  I had to stay in character. That was the golden rule of roleplaying. You commit to the bit, no matter what.

  There, on the floor near the pile of dirty clothes, was a brown bandana. Stained, worn, probably hadn't been washed in weeks, but it would work.

  I snatched it up and wrapped it around the lower half of my face, tying it firmly at the back of my head. The fabric covered my nose slits (or lack thereof) and the worst of the facial scarring. Not as good as the mask would've been, but it would have to do.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  One final check in the mirror. The reflection showed a tall figure in a blue coat, armed and dangerous-looking, face half-hidden behind a bandana. The exposed upper half (the white eyes, the skull-like bone structure, the deathly pale skin) still looked terrifying, but in a way that suggested mystery rather than outright horror.

  Good enough.

  I opened the door.

  The piggy-faced thug on the other side looked me up and down, his expression somewhere between annoyance and relief. He was short, stocky, wearing leather armor that had probably been black once but was now a mottled gray-brown from years of neglect. Daggers hung from his belt, three on each side, the handles wrapped in stained cloth.

  "'Bout time," he muttered, already turning to lead the way.

  I followed, keeping my expression neutral. Detached. The way Roxam would.

  The corridor was narrow, lit by sputtering candles mounted in iron brackets. The walls were stone brick, damp and crumbling in places. We passed several doors, all closed, and I heard sounds from behind them: snoring, coughing, what might have been crying or might have been laughing; it was hard to tell.

  We reached a stairwell and descended. Two floors down, the air changed; it got warmer, smokier, filled with the smell of cheap ale and unwashed bodies. The stairs opened onto the ground floor, which turned out to be a tavern.

  Heads turned as I walked through.

  Patrons, mostly rough-looking men in various states of intoxication, glanced my way. Their eyes widened. A few mouths fell open. One man actually knocked over his drink, too focused on staring at me to notice.

  Then, one by one, they looked away.

  Quickly. Almost frantically. Like children who'd been caught peeking at something forbidden.

  A grin threatened to break across my face (before I remembered that would hurt like hell). This was perfect. My intimidation stat was clearly through the roof. Even my presence was enough to make hardened criminals avert their eyes.

  The piggy man led me to a door at the back of the tavern. Down another set of stairs. Into the basement.

  And there, in a space that had been converted into a full gambling den, complete with card tables, dice games, and what looked like some kind of fantasy roulette wheel, I saw him.

  The boss.

  He sat at a table in the corner, massive and imposing even while seated. Three armed thugs flanked him; security, clearly. The man himself was built like a bear, all muscle and bulk, with a thick beard that covered most of his face and a smile that showed too many teeth.

  He waved me over, that smile widening.

  I walked to the table, boots thudding against the wooden floor. Every eye in the room tracked my movement.

  The boss gestured to the empty chair across from him.

  I sat.

  "Roxam! Just the man I wanted to see!"

  His voice boomed across the space, jovial and loud. I gave him a single nod, keeping my face impassive, while my brain worked overtime trying to figure out who the hell this was.

  "I heard from the boys. The Lancas job went off without a hitch. Excellent work!"

  He grinned, waiting. Expectant.

  I channeled every bit of Roxam's character I could remember: the brooding intensity, the economy of words, the barely-contained violence simmering under the surface.

  "It was a simple operation."

  My voice came out flat. Unimpressed. Like fighting off however many enemies had been involved in this "Lancas job" was beneath my notice.

  The boss threw his head back and laughed, slapping the table hard enough to make it jump. The sound echoed through the basement.

  "Only Skullface Roxam would call fighting off an entire detachment of Duchy Guards a 'simple operation!'"

  Duchy Guards. I'd fought Duchy Guards. Multiple guards. An entire detachment's worth.

  Cool. Cool cool cool. Totally normal. Not terrifying at all.

  The boss reached into a chest beside his chair and pulled out a small leather bag. He tossed it onto the table between us. It landed with a heavy clink that spoke of serious weight.

  I picked it up, loosened the drawstring, peered inside.

  Gold coins. Dozens of them, gleaming in the torchlight.

  "Your cut, with a nice bonus included for taking care of those Duchy dogs."

  I sealed the bag, tucked it into my coat. Stayed in character.

  "Thank you. Very generous of you."

  Another booming laugh. "Of course! Angus the Grim always takes care of his boys!"

  The thugs around him responded with enthusiastic agreement. "Damn right!" "Hell yeah!" The kind of performative loyalty that spoke of genuine respect mixed with healthy fear.

  Angus the Grim.

  The name hit me like a punch to the gut.

  I knew that name.

  My mind raced back to one of Roxam's journal entries, a piece of lore I'd found during my completionist playthrough. It had been in his hideout, buried in a desk drawer, easy to miss if you weren't thorough. The entry had been brief, just a few lines about how Roxam had eliminated the previous leader of the Viper Syndicate. A man named Angus.

  This man. This big, laughing, generous boss who was currently grinning at me like I was his favorite employee.

  This was the man Roxam was going to kill.

  Angus waved a meaty hand in my direction, his grin widening until it threatened to split his bearded face.

  "Go on then, Roxam! Get out there and enjoy yourself!"

  The words boomed across the gambling den. Several of the nearby card players looked over, pausing their games.

  "Get drunk! Eat a proper meal for once! Hell, hire yourself a harlot and have a good tumble!" Angus slapped the table again, the impact sending a tremor through the wood. "Life's too damn short to spend it locked up in that dingy room of yours like some kind of hermit!"

  The men flanking him erupted into laughter. The sound bounced off the basement walls, rowdy and raucous. One of them elbowed another, making some comment I couldn't quite hear that sparked another round of guffaws.

  I felt their eyes on me. Waiting for a reaction. Waiting to see if I'd join in the jovial atmosphere, maybe crack a smile, perhaps offer some witty retort.

  Instead, I let the silence stretch. Let it grow uncomfortable. Let them remember exactly who they were talking to.

  Then I grunted.

  A single, noncommittal sound that conveyed absolutely nothing except vague acknowledgment of words spoken in my general direction.

  The laughter died down. Not abruptly, but like someone had turned down the volume knob bit by bit. Angus's grin stayed in place, but his eyes sharpened just a fraction. Studying me. Measuring.

  I stood, the chair scraping against the floor behind me. The leather bag of gold sat heavy in my coat pocket, a tangible weight against my ribs.

  "I'll take my leave."

  The words came out flat. Emotionless. The way Roxam would deliver them, like he was commenting on the weather rather than addressing his boss.

  Angus nodded, that calculating look still in his eyes, but the jovial mask slipped back into place quickly.

  "Of course, of course! You do what you need to, my boy!"

  I turned and walked toward the stairs. Measured steps. Unhurried. Behind me, I heard Angus start up another conversation with his guards, something about a shipment coming in next week, but I tuned it out.

  The gambling den's atmosphere shifted as I moved through it. Players at the various tables glanced up, then immediately back down at their cards or dice. A path opened in front of me without anyone seeming to consciously move aside. They just... weren't in my way anymore.

  The intimidation factor was real.

  I climbed the stairs, each step taking me away from the smoky basement and back toward the tavern proper. The noise level increased as I emerged: loud conversations, the clatter of mugs, someone singing off-key in a corner. The same patrons from before were still there, though now most of them were studiously ignoring my presence.

  Good.

  I navigated through the crowd, heading for the stairs that led to the upper floors. The same narrow stairwell, the same sputtering candles, the same damp stone walls. Up one flight. Then another.

  The piggy-faced thug from earlier was gone, probably back to whatever he'd been doing before he'd been sent to fetch me. The corridor stretched empty in both directions.

  I found my door, pushed it open, stepped inside.

  The moment the door closed behind me, I sagged against it.

  Damn.

  Damn.

  That had been terrifying.

  My heart hammered in my chest like it was trying to break free. Sweat had soaked through the bandana around my face. My hands trembled slightly as I unbuckled the sword belt and set it down against the wall.

  I'd been rusty. So incredibly rusty.

  When was the last time I'd done any real-time roleplaying? The last D&D session had been... what, eight months ago? Maybe nine? Before Todd moved to Portland and Sarah got that new job with the insane hours and everyone else just sort of drifted away into their adult lives with their adult responsibilities.

  I'd gotten soft. Lazy. Too used to video games where I could pause, take my time selecting dialogue options, reload if I made a mistake. Path of Exemplar had been forgiving that way. Take as long as you need. Think through every conversation tree. Min-max your responses for optimal outcomes.

  This? This was live. No pause button. No reload saves. Every word, every gesture, every grunt had to be delivered in real-time, with real consequences, to real people who could actually kill me if I screwed up badly enough.

  And I'd managed to pull it off. Barely.

  The interaction with Angus replayed in my mind. Had I been too curt? Not curt enough? Was the grunt appropriate or had it come across as disrespectful? Angus had seemed fine with it, but that calculating look in his eyes suggested he was smarter than his jolly demeanor indicated.

  I peeled the bandana off my face, wincing as the fabric caught on the rough patches of scarred skin. The cool air felt good against the exposed tissue, a small relief.

  I needed to practice. Get back into the rhythm of staying in character without the safety net of a pause menu. Roxam was a challenging role: brooding, violent, bitter, but also competent and professional. Not chatty. Not friendly. Definitely not the type to laugh along with Angus's crude jokes about harlots.

  But I could do this.

  I had to do this.

  Because out there, in the basement, sat the man I was eventually going to kill.