"KESMORV! YOU LAZY DOG!" An old lady's voice cracked like thunder, her wrinkled face twisted in fury. She barked at a man in his mid to late forties, clad in a black shirt and white apron. Tall but stooped, his bent spine screamed a lack of confidence. Shoulder-length hair framed his unkempt beard and mustache, but his crimson eyes—hollow, exhausted—stood out most.
"YOU SLACKER! When I was your age, I labored twice as hard—and I wasn't paid 1.5 bronze for it! Where's your energy, you!*"
The old woman's tirade rolled on, but the man didn't flinch. His gaze stayed low, waiting for her to tire. Two decades had passed since he'd been ripped from Earth, summoned as a youth by heretics into this pre-modernized hellhole. Branded an otherworlder with a mocking "welcome," he and a few others were cursed to this taboo-ridden world. Transportation was deemed evil, a mark of the dark ones. Unlike the others, he bore no talent or power to fight or survive—he was mundane, forced to run, always running, lest hunters or executioners catch his trail.
"I'm sorry, Madam Halu. Won't happen again! I'll be careful," he muttered, bowing deep in apology.
"Okay, be careful next time," she snapped, her voice softening just enough.
For three months, he'd slaved in this dingy inn, the air thick with grease and despair. Thankfully, he'd grasped their language, accent, and culture enough to blend in, dodging suspicion. Being hunted was no longer a threat—but being identified as an otherworlder still loomed.
"Where's my soup… I don't have all day?" An impatient voice cut through the hum.
Kesmorv's gaze darted around, searching, until a voice eased his panic. "Mr. Kesmorv, stake and soup to table 3!" A waitress stood there—short chestnut hair, ember eyes, pale skin, mid-thirties. Her smooth lips and curves caught his eye for a fleeting, guilty moment, but her face flickered with unease.
"Mr! KESMORV!" she snapped.
"Oh… oh my bad! I'll deliver it quick! I'm sorry, I didn't get any sleep," he stammered, rubbing his hands. Snatching the tray with steak and soup, he rushed to the table, heart pounding.
His dazed face caught a troublemaker's eye. As Kesmorv trudged toward the table, the prankster thrust a foot into his path. Kesmorv stumbled, crashing onto a man with a bald head and beard. Soup and steak toppled—hot broth steamed on the man's head and shoulders, the meat landing square on his scalp.
"You bastard! …Aghhh!" the man cursed, steam rising. He stood, revealing a tall, muscular frame clad in a plain blue uniform—a city guard. The room fell silent. Eating stopped. Chats ceased. All eyes locked on Kesmorv and the guard. "Poor man, he's dead meat for real," a whisper slithered from a nearby table.
"Aey! Crap… I'm fucked!" Kesmorv muttered under his breath, a bitter laugh twisting inside at his cursed luck. Sleepiness vanished in a flash. He bowed—more like knelt—before the guard.
"I'm greatly sorry, sir city officer! I didn't mean to do that!" Kesmorv gripped the man's dirty boots, pleading. The guard kicked his face. Mud filled Kesmorv's mouth; he spat in disgust but hid his shame. Meeting the guard's gaze with deep apology, he pressed on. "As compensation, I'll pay for your lunch for two weeks! I beg you to forgive me!"
The guard's stern exterior softened, a wide smile breaking through—then his face turned serious again.
"Follow me!" the guard barked. Bystanders watched with pity, their eyes whispering of a grim fate awaiting the poor man.
Kesmorv trailed hesitantly, the sky weeping mud that caked his boots. Each step sank deeper, as if the earth itself dragged him down, but he pressed on. His heart pounded, threatening to burst with anxious dread. Soon, they slipped into an alley—nowhere to run.
"Two weeks? Hnnn… that would be 15 bronze! Throw up, rat!" the guard growled.
Relief washed over Kesmorv. Extortion beat a beating—painless, at least. Inside, he laughed. Fifteen bronze? A pittance, laughable! But to fool the guard, he flashed a desperate look, as if begging for mercy. The guard grinned. "Hurry, my clothes are wet—I don't have all day!"
Kesmorv turned, anxiety spiking. He hadn't separated his funds—more than a waiter should carry. Fumbling, he opened a pouch brimming with bronze. The guard's eyes narrowed, curiosity piqued as he stared at the coins.
"Who are you? …An inn rat like you? Aey! How can you have so much? Identify yourself!" The guard flashed a dagger, its edge glinting.
Kesmorv held his calm, voice warm. "Yesterday, sir, I won a big gamble." Not a full lie—enough to satisfy the guard, though skepticism lingered in the man's narrowed eyes. A tense silence hung, then shattered as the guard spoke, a smile curling his lips. "You know what? Make it 25!"
Kesmorv's face fell. "But sir!"
"Pay up, rat! You've got plenty! I won't bother you again—if you need help, ask me. Consider me a friend," the guard laughed, his mocking tone cutting deep. With that, he turned and left.
Kesmorv gazed at the rainy sky, gasping a sigh of relief. His hand clutched the left side of his shoulder. "A friend, ha! Guards are the last thing I'd deal with, fucker… guess it's time to leave already."
A life where I'm hunted like a mad dog—if caught, tortured, executed. That's my fate. Having money meant nothing. He could amass a fortune, more than this—but taxes would expose him, sealing his sentence.
Teeth gritted, he trudged off to buy alcohol.
"Hahaaha… do you want some?" Kesmorv slurred, his hand grasping the bartender's chin. Drunk and dazed, his eyes lingered on her curves. She shot him a disgusted look and shoved him out. He hit the muddy street, clothes soaked in murky rainwater, the sky darkening after hours of drinking.
"Ohh… where should I go now?" A mischievous smile twisted his lips. Lust drove him onward. He lay beside a woman, her breath steady, and reached to hug her—only to feel a cold push. "Forty min—you're done," she muttered, striding out of the room.
Humans chase warmth by nature. As children, they grow with friends. As young adults, they seek love and companionship. With age, they work for family. In old age, they face their last days. But for Kesmorv, no such warmth existed. He chased pleasure instead—no one waited for him, no one longed for him. Long ago, he'd accepted this. Now, he curled up, arms wrapped tight around his knees.