Zorion groaned as the morning sunlight pierced through the crack in his rusted window blinds. His head throbbed, and his tongue felt like it had been dipped in sandpaper.
"I drank too much last night," he muttered, dragging himself off the mattress that technically still counted as a bed.
Slipping on a pair of dusty sneakers, tied them half-heartedly and stepped out into the crisp morning air. The streets of East Ranch were still waking up—quiet, grumpy, and full of stray cats with more pride than the average landlord.
Zorion began jogging at a pace that was more 'sluggish escape' than athletic. Just a few meters in, a familiar voice pierced through the stillness.
"Well well, getting late for the job again, young man?"
There she was—Mrs. Yelna, his nosy neighbor from the flat next door, wrapped in her signature floral shawl like a battlefield veteran preparing for gossip warfare. Her hair was silver, tied in a bun that defied gravity and age, and her eyes sparkled with mischief the way only a seventy-year-old woman pretending to be sixty-nine could pull off.
Zorion stopped mid-jog, blinking like a man ambushed by existential dread.
"I, uh… actually resigned from that stupid job," he said, straightening his posture like it would somehow make his words more believable.
Narrator: It's cute how his ego keeps replacing the word "fired" with "resigned."
To prove his point, Zorion dug into his pocket, whipped out a crisp, golden-edged ticket, and flashed it like a knight revealing his holy sword.
"See this?" he grinned. "I'm going to Zaherra. All seven games of the Equinox Series. That's why I quit."
Mrs. Yelna's eyes widened. Her mouth opened slightly, as if she'd just seen a ghost—or worse, someone skipping rent.
"All seven?" she whispered. "How… how'd you afford something that expensive overnight? What kind of shady business are you pulling, boy
Zorion shrugged and slipped the ticket back into his pocket, still basking in his dramatic mic-drop moment.
"I won it in a lottery, Granny. How can I lose when I've got the Witch of Gossip behind my back?"
Mrs. Yelna let out a wheezy laugh, swatting the air with her shawl as if the nickname didn't secretly make her proud. "You haven't changed one bit in years. Still the same old jester. But tell me, when are you going to Zaherra, hmm? The road trip alone takes two whole days, and that's the only way in—flights have been banned for over a decade. And the series starts soon, doesn't it?"
Zorion stretched his arms behind his head, flashing a lazy grin. "Yeah, Warne told me everything I needed to know."
"Warne?" she squinted. "You mean that alcoholic friend of yours who once tried to sell fake passports to a fruit vendor?"
Zorion laughed. "That's the one. He said the next—or maybe last—bus is leaving this evening. Also told me something about behaving in Zaherra and not making a fuss." He scratched his head. "No clue what he meant by that, though."
Yelna's expression turned more serious, her eyes scanning the empty street like someone expecting eavesdroppers. "The Zaherran people… they're not particularly fond of us Indrans. And we're no saints either."
She folded her arms. "They pray to different gods, wear their culture like armor, and are obsessed with their roots. Conservative doesn't even begin to describe it. And you know what they eat over there?"
"Ducks," she snapped. "Our national animal. Ducks! Can you imagine? If I ever see someone chewing on a beak, I swear I'll pass out."
Zorion let out a soft whistle. "Guess I'll pack instant noodles."
Yelna didn't laugh this time. "There were wars, Zorion. Real ones. People here lost sons, husbands, whole families over a piece of land. All because of them. Be careful."
For a moment, silence settled between them. Just the wind, the dust, and distant sounds of morning life.
Then Zorion grinned again. "Don't worry, Granny. I've got your blessing. What could possibly go wrong?"
Narrator: SPOILERS for future chapters... everything.
Zorion, blissfully unaware of his fate, looked off toward the hazy horizon with that same naïve idealism that made him both lovable and utterly unprepared.
"They're humans too," he said softly. "We should spread peace despite our differences… and move on from the past."
Mrs. Yelna stared at him for a moment—this scrawny, overly hopeful boy standing in a country teetering on decades of bitterness. Then, slowly, she stepped forward and gently patted his head.
"You're a special kid," she said, her voice softer than usual. "Have a safe trip, alright? Now go on, finish your jogging. And when you get back… maybe try being a little more diligent. So you don't get fired again."
Zorion blinked. "Wait—how did you know!?"
She gave a sly smirk, tapping her temple. "These hairs aren't silver because of dye, young man. They're silver from experience."
After a while. Zorion stood frozen in front of the vehicle, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.
"That's the most luxurious bus I've ever seen…"
Polished white body, golden rims, tinted windows—this wasn't a bus. This was a moving palace. It practically hummed "you don't belong here"
Then, as the engine softly purred, a thought slid into his mind like a con artist through an open window.
Maybe it's time I start connecting with rich people… climb out of this broke-man lifestyle one business card at a time.
Narrator: Zorion's dreams often start with charm, detour through delusion, and crash-land somewhere around social disaster.
With a sheepish grin and the overconfidence only clueless youth could supply, he stepped inside. As he walked toward the back, his eyes subtly scanned every row, cataloging the passengers like he was auditioning for "Who Wants to Be My Millionaire Friend?"
Old lady with knitting needles. Bald guy in a crisp suit. Middle-aged man sleeping with his arms crossed. Someone reading the Holy Text of Indra.
Zorion sighed as he plopped into the very last row.
"Huhhh… no frickin' body in my age group."
His eyes narrowed in playful frustration.
"How am I supposed to connect like this? My humor's wasted here. If I say the wrong thing, half these people will file moral complaints. Not everyone's Granny."
Just then, his eyes drifted forward to the second-last row. A bald man in a silky blazer sat there, back perfectly straight, expression stiff enough to pass for royalty.
Zorion stared at the shiny scalp.
Moon joke. Gotta be a moon joke.
His brain practically screamed it. But so did his self-preservation.
No. No way. Not on a bus to Zaherra. I make one celestial crack and end up in a diplomatic incident.
He leaned back, folding his arms, letting out a slow exhale.
"Yeah… maybe I'll just wait. Someone young is bound to get on. Hopefully. Please."
And so he waited—half plotting, half praying—for the universe to deliver him someone who wouldn't report him for being himself