F-Rank Mimic Chest: My SSS Mimic Skill Lets Me Become Anything

The brass ringing traveled toward them by stairs.

It began above Candle Row, thin as a spoon touching a cup. Each landing brought it lower. Witness thread ticked along the overhead chain behind the sound, marking where the record had traveled without pulling a person or so much as lifting a loose tag.

The tooth trader stood beside two open clamp jaws. Blood dripped from their metal molars. One post answered every ring with a bent scrape. Warm soup memory still breathed through the grout between Dane’s wheels.

”Next bell,” the trader said. Four cheek hinges clicked around the words. ”Then I price the sentence.”

Dane’s ruined front-left rail knocked against his wheel. One living strip carried all that dead wood. Air moved through the raw joint and found the hidden floor mouth beneath it. Around his axle, the collector’s loop tightened on the one-grain, two-finger split. Ada pushed rod one up before it could change.

The approaching brass warmed in Dane’s hunger.

Good. At least nobody had learned how to summon a husband by his wedding ring.

His floor bowed toward the sound.

Vera’s boots came to rest one pace from the intact side of his broken corner. Her wraps smelled of old burns and fresh blood, but her hands stayed in the quiet above him.

”Dane, may I stand between the pouch and this seam? If you strike twice, I take the evidence away. No hand on you. I leave when the display ends.”

One impact answered through his floor.

She moved into the space his mouth wanted most. Wood, stone, Vera, then the descending ring. Hunger hated the order; everyone else needed it.

The ringing reached the last flight.

A shoulder struck the stair rail. Boots came down sideways after it, one step quick and the next checked by a left hand closing late. Two fingers tapped the rail after the others.

”You could have used the stairs like a person,” Jessa said from behind him.

”I slipped.”

”You ran into the rail.”

Toma Reed reached the lane breathing harder than either line deserved. A claim pouch knocked against his coat. Witness thread whispered against Jessa’s sleeve as she followed at an ordinary pace.

He heard the broken rail tap Dane’s wheel.

”Markets bite from the right too,” Toma said. ”Nobody mentioned that when I learned the furniture rule.”

Jessa unhooked the thread and gave it to Mire before he could bargain with it. ”He learned the furniture rule by ignoring it. Keep the list short.”

The thread stopped at Mire’s block. Her middle mouth read its knots once: extraction witnessed on a tin tray, Ash Company permit, claimant notice served upstairs.

”The company offered us the ring after subtracting a recovery fee larger than the ring,” Jessa said. Metal shifted inside the pouch. ”I asked which one of them had worn it. That moved the discussion.”

She laid gray cloth across her palm and set the ring on it. Dane heard cheap brass touch weave. The little band had no weight worth stealing, which did nothing to stop his body from wanting it.

”Plain brass,” Jessa told the trader. ”No stone, no rune, no guild mark. There is a shallow flat inside and two punch marks beside it. I put all three there when I fitted it.”

Silver measuring teeth met behind the trader’s cheek hinges.

”Identity supported. Return unproved.”

The ring became meat in Dane’s raw seam. Then a coin. Then June’s hand in the rain, fingers closing around his. For one brutal beat, the route back to her seemed to run through his mouth.

Swallowing could keep what death had taken.

The old lie arrived without new words. Dane held his wheels against the stone until the urge passed through them. Vera shifted toward the creak in his wood and away from the ring instead of asking him to promise anything.

Mire’s highest mouth addressed Toma. ”State what the storage creature took and what it released. Do not improve yourself in the telling.”

Toma’s bad hand flexed once. The two stiff fingers stopped apart from the rest.

”I entered ahead of Ash Company because I wanted the private share,” he said. ”The chest caught my left wrist and forearm. Its teeth reached two fingers. It cut its own tongue before it let those fingers go. I pulled free with them attached and the hooked knife in my right hand.”

The trader’s measuring teeth clicked once.

”What stayed?”

”My ring, my left glove, and a piece of my scarf. I kept the arm. At the time, I called that favorable arithmetic.”

Toma’s breath caught when Jessa’s thumb passed once over the two stiff fingers that stayed spread. Her next words landed hard.

”At home, you called it a salvage dispute.”

Toma swallowed. ”I called the chest a cheat too.”

Her thumb left his hand. The claim pouch settled between them, too small to hide behind.

”Why salvage?” she asked.

Toma took long enough that Mire’s price beads clicked once in the silence. ”Because saying I reached into a monster for a private share sounded worse.”

”Worse to the company?”

”Worse to me.”

Jessa let that answer stand. She neither softened nor sharpened it for him.

Mire waited. None of her mouths rescued him with the expected question.

”I reached into it without a bargain,” he said. ”I offered nothing. It promised nothing. The ring was still mine when it put the metal outside later.”

”You saw that return?” the trader asked.

”No. I was not there for the extraction.” Toma turned the claim pouch until the folded receipt crackled. ”This says Grib used wedges and a hook. The ring hit the listed tin tray while a red line recorded the pressure. Ash Company got first notice because I entered on its permit. I signed the claimant line.”

”I signed the fitting marks,” Jessa said. ”The clerk cut the red thread after the ring matched both.”

The trader’s cheek hinges folded inward.

”Show me what remained inside.”

Toma’s boots stopped before Dane’s broken joint. His bad hand scraped his coat and failed to make a fist.

”You kept the glove?”

Dane struck once.

”I liked that glove,” Toma said.

Jessa kept the ring in her palm. ”You liked the hand more.”

Mire ordered a clean evidence tray. A shallow iron plate struck stone beneath Dane’s ruined joint. Six hands scrubbed it with bitter salt until the runoff stopped smelling of blood.

Her middle mouth fixed the terms. ”Display only. No sale. No transfer. No hand enters the structure.”

Leather waited in the hollow behind Dane’s dead rail. Toma’s torn glove remained folded around the Ash Company scarf scrap, the cuff pinning the cloth where his mouth had left it months ago.

Dane pressed from behind.

The glove scraped into the destroyed joint. Old leather dragged across raw mimic fiber, taking salt, sweat, and the remembered pulse of two living fingers with it. Dane remembered those pulses hammering against his tongue. He remembered the hooked knife crossing the cut he had made in himself, Toma wrenching backward, and the instant when hunger had offered a simpler ending. The one strip holding his rail drew tight enough for every strand to separate against him.

Hunger pulled the other way. His floor mouth shaped itself around the glove without closing, tasting the old salt through layers of his own wounded tissue. The external ring warmed again. Keeping both would buy less than a heartbeat, and the choice would remain after the ache returned.

Keep it. Crush it. Make the old fear part of him before the ring could leave again.

He pushed harder.

One glove corner passed the hollow and touched the tray. The torn fingers followed. Its cuff stayed caught inside him. A ragged tongue of scarf came beneath it and stopped under the cuff, still one retained bundle rather than a second offering.

The automatic lure woke in a rush of heat over the exposed leather. Buyer steps changed direction beyond Vera while the tooth trader’s silver teeth measured faster. Toma drew a breath as though the glove had become valuable only after somebody else wanted it.

”Old blood is shining,” Jessa said. ”The cuff stays inside. So does the scarf under it.”

Her knees cracked as she crouched. ”Outside the bite line. Hands back.”

”Three uneven stitches at the cuff,” she continued. ”Mine. I repaired that seam twice. He was meant to make the third attempt.”

Toma’s two stiff fingers rasped unevenly against his coat, missing the motion they had once known.

The floor mouth pulled. The glove slid a fraction backward. Dane’s dead rail sagged, adding its weight to the final strip. His axle loop bit down hard enough to send amber warmth along the cord groove.

”Strip is at its limit,” Ada said. Rod one ground against the axle housing. ”Split holds. Vera, be ready for the pouch. Dane decides whether this breath continues.”

Vera kept both boots planted. ”I’m ready.”

Dane held the glove on the tray for one more breath.

The trader’s measuring teeth clicked through identity, hunger, and possession. Toma shifted closer; Jessa caught his coat with the hand that was not holding the ring and kept him outside the line.

”You have already put one hand in there,” she said.

Toma stopped.

Dane reversed the pressure.

The scarf slid home first. A raw fiber snagged the glove’s torn thumb and pulled against the living strip. He changed the angle inside himself, drew the cuff under the crushed hollow, and felt the dead rail drop without tearing free.

The last leather edge vanished. Hunger closed over empty air.

”Strip held,” Ada said. ”Axle split unchanged.”

Inside, the glove and scarf settled back into Dane’s raw hollow. Outside, cheap brass pressed into the gray cloth in Jessa’s palm.

The trader closed all four cheek hinges.

”Return under hunger accepted.”

Toma lifted his good hand before acceptance could grow extra teeth. ”Which part of that are you buying?”

Mire’s lower hands set three styluses moving at different heights. Her high mouth announced the scope while the middle scratched it into wax.

”The original stays on Candle Row’s witness chain. The trader receives one authenticated copy and the sole Candle Row telling right for twelve auction bells. The telling may carry the active hunger, the living fingers released, the witnessed extraction, and the ring returned to its owner.”

Jessa closed her fingers around the ring. ”His pain after he came home?”

”His to withhold,” Mire said.

The ring pressed deeper into the gray cloth in Jessa’s palm. Toma’s bad hand brushed the air near it, then struck his coat at his side.

”My memories?”

”Yours.”

The lowest teeth clicked toward Dane’s raw joint. ”The body and what remains inside it are unavailable.”

The trader tapped each open clamp with a measuring tooth. ”Two contaminated clamp services. One post alignment. Three memories opened without buyers. Twelve bells closes all five losses.”

A red damage rod ratcheted against the bent post. It held the angle; it repaired nothing. The open jaws continued dripping into the tooth stall while market workers lifted the fallen perfume awning from the neighboring lane.

Mire’s middle mouth struck the compensation line from the tooth bar. Her top mouth repeated Dane’s registered identity without changing a word.

”NOTHING HERE IS FOR SALE EXCEPT WHAT TRIED TO OWN US remains for its purchased cycle.”

One new sentence entered the witness chain beneath it.

”CLEAN RETURN UNDER ACTIVE HUNGER. ONE SUPPORTED EVENT.”

The trader took the authenticated copy. The ring and receipt stayed in Jessa’s closed hand; Toma’s glove claim stayed outside the sale; Dane kept physical possession.

Toma leaned toward Mire. ”A witness share would make the next account easier to remember.”

Jessa put the ring pouch inside his coat and held it there until his good hand took over.

”Start with the word you owe me for coming home and calling my ring salvage,” she said. ”You can ask Mire about money after that.”

Toma drew breath to answer. Pale bone wheels rattled onto the lane before he chose the word.

Kett stopped beyond Dane’s tongue range with an archive cart that smelled of bone dust, old wood, and wax sealed around questions. Box hinges opened. Archive thread twanged between four things inside.

His stylus tapped them one by one.

”Correction. Reassignment. Sealing. Removed entry. Different Registry dates remain at the edges. Every guild destination has been cut away.”

The clean-return citation pulled once against Mire’s witness chain.

”A returned ring is a supported event,” Kett said. ”It is also the smallest responsive-storage record anyone failed to erase.”

He turned one wax impression under the stylus. A scraped groove answered with no destination.

”These alterations occurred after storage objects made target-specific choices. Survival falls outside this archive. So do benevolence, safety, and the name of whoever changed the layer.”

Four box threads tightened toward Dane’s damaged frame until the cart corners creaked.

”Lord Thorne has requested the version with your name on it.”