"The bill would be… uh—three thousand dollars, sir."
The young man's sunken eyes—ringed by dark circles that stood as the only honest proof of countless sleepless nights widened for a brief moment before settling back into dull stillness.
His gaze remained fixed on the cashier across the counter, who cradled a bouquet of roses with hesitant care, offering a smile so carefully rehearsed it bordered on being grotesque.
The kind of fakely genuine expression expected of him.
Perhaps it was the frail-looking young man himself; ashen hair mixed with strands of pale platinum, eyes of an unnaturally light hue—that had unsettled the cashier.
Facial features uncommon within the Decarra region, yet instantly recognizable to anyone who knew what to look for.
Or perhaps it was something else entirely.
I should have dyed my hair instead.
Asher's thoughts drifted as his eyes unfocused, staring past the bouquet, past the cashier, into some distant nothing.
He nearly dozed off standing there.
The words three thousand dollars echoed again, settling into his mind like a slow, suffocating reminder.
That kind of money wasn't something he could afford lightly.
It was the result of endless workloads stacked upon each other, night shifts that bled into mornings, side hustles piled atop side hustles, stress accumulated until it carved hollows into his frame.
At times, his thin silhouette had even earned him the occasional joke—being mistaken for an undead lurking in the dark.
For a fleeting moment, he imagined what else those three thousand dollars could buy.
A month lived quietly.
Food without counting portions.
Sleep without guilt.
Maybe even a little comfort.
But not today.
Today, he would spend it all.
Asher met the cashier's eyes with an intensity born not of anger, but exhaustion, silently questioning the absurd price.
Then he shook his head and let out a sigh thick with exasperation.
He raised his hands slightly, dipping them into the black trench coat.
Though rugged and sewn together at several places, it was warm enough to survive the upcoming winter arc.
Something leathery and familiar instantly caught beneath his fingers, and he pulled it out without wasting another second.
A purse came into existence.
You can back out even now. It's not like life's ever been generous to you.
Asher entertained the thought for a fleeting moment, but immediately shook his head, pushing it to the farthest corner of his mind.
Today, he was determined—armed with a faint, almost laughable glimmer of hope.
Hope was not something he relied on. It had betrayed him far too often for that.
But today… today, he wasn't going to back off like he always had.
Backing off only ever brought consequences.
He had learned that the bitter way.
Asher's hand moved slowly inside the purse, fingers brushing past worn leather and folded bills.
His eyes, however, moved faster—alert, cautious—making sure no one nearby could steal a glimpse of his modest fortune.
Not that it mattered much.
To most people here, even poverty had standards.
And he fell well below them.
Then he hesitantly extended the three-thousand-dollar sum and placed it on the counter.
Back at his place, they used to put the money directly into the cashier's hand, but here, in the super-city, it was an entirely different matter—and he did not wish to embarrass himself thoroughly on a day like this.
The cashier gave him an awkward look before retrieving the money, fingers brushing against the bills with practiced indifference.
Asher, in turn, picked up the bouquet.
It was far heavier than it looked, not in weight but in worth—priced several times higher than a normal one should ever have been, thanks to its enchanted aroma and faint healing effects.
Luxuries meant for the rich.
He held it carefully, almost reverently, and walked away from the counter, each step feeling like a transaction he could no longer refund.
"Hey, look there… umm… isn't that guy from the Wespera clan? I'm quite sure I saw him on the news once."
Ashen froze mid-step as the feminine voice drifted into his ears from somewhere behind him.
He didn't bother turning around, nor did he make any effort to identify the speaker.
There was no need.
This sort of thing followed him everywhere, clinging closer than his shadow.
People whispering about crimes he never committed, intentions he never harboured, sins the world had generously assigned him in his stead.
That's right. I'm the one. The one abandoned by the clan. The outcast.
Ah… how comforting.
The thought surfaced with a dull irony.
In truth, he would have found it more unsettling if no one had spoken at all.
"…Keep your voice low," another voice hissed in reply. "He might hear you."
"What?" the first scoffed openly. "You think I'm scared of that useless bastard? The one who tried to force himself on his own sister—the future heiress of the Wespera clan? Please. I could take him on any day."
Asher's grip around the bouquet tightened, ever so slightly.
The petals crumpled under the pressure, releasing a faint trace of their enchanted fragrance into the air.
His expression remained distant, vacant almost, as though the words had passed straight through him.
But inside, they settled...layer by layer—stacking neatly atop countless others just like them.
***
The automatic door slid shut as Asher exited the establishment, revealing a wide stretch of road ahead laced with lamps that flickered weakly, casting pale light into the night.
The constant honking of vehicles, the slow-moving crowd that covered the vicinity like a thick membrane, and the faint drizzle submitting gently to gravity did little to lift the somber mood clinging to him.
"Tonight, I'm going to confess to her. No more excuses."
He muttered the words in a quiet hush, lifting the bouquet closer to his nose, checking if the fragrance remained as strong as before.
Though the thought did not visibly reflect on his sunken face, it worked wonders all the same, easing the weight that had pressed on him for the past few minutes.
A faint smile surfaced—subtle, fleeting—one that did not quite belong on his face, and one that contrasted sharply with the expression he had worn for most of his life.
Soon enough, a car stopped before him. Without wasting a moment, he entered the backseat and settled himself as comfortably as the narrow space allowed.
"…How warm." Asher sighed in quiet relief.
The atmosphere inside the car was far gentler.
A stark contrast to the deadly cold winds outside and the fine droplets of water that had been biting into his skin through the fabric of his coat—one that was certainly not meant for winters.
Not that he had ever had the luxury of choosing better.
"Sir, may I confirm the location with you?" the driver asked, not bothering to turn back.
"Uh… it's the central event hall," Asher replied after a brief pause.
The driver stepped on the gas, and the car accelerated with a soft, restrained hush of the engine.
No further words were exchanged after that.
Asher had no desire to speak.
His attention drifted instead to the world outside the window—chromatic lights stretching and smearing into a blurry mirage, tall buildings passing like silent sentinels, distant signs glowing and fading before he could read them.
For once, his mind felt strangely empty.
Or perhaps it was simply too full for any single thought to surface.
Even if he had planned to say something, the journey ended far too quickly.
Or maybe it only felt that way because, for the first time in a long while, he hadn't been counting the seconds.
•••
Asher stood before the central event hall, penniless.
He had no money left after paying the taxi driver.
Normally, he would have preferred not to pay at all and make a run for it instead, but today… today he could afford to be generous.
Bums like him rarely had any business standing before a place like this, a hall perpetually occupied by luxurious parties, influential meetings, and rich people ticking items off their extravagant bucket lists.
Its towering design, ornate exterior, and sheer, oppressive size demanded notice.
It was a world that existed parallel to his own, close enough to see, yet impossibly distant to touch.
But this time, he was invited.
To a birthday party, no less—something he had never attended in his life.
The thought stirred a mild, unfamiliar excitement within him.
He imagined himself devouring the lavish food and drinks alone, without restraint or shame, indulging in excess even if just for one night.
The idea felt surreal.
And yet, standing there beneath the glow of the hall's lights, it was mind-bogglingly real.
A pair of tall glass doors stood before Asher, pristine and reflective, guarded by faint golden runes embedded into the frame.
Decorative, yet functional.
Just standing there made him feel out of place, like a stain that had wandered too far from where it belonged.
He adjusted the bouquet in his arms instinctively, as if it could somehow justify his presence.
A small reception counter rested to the side, manned by a woman dressed in a crisp uniform, her posture straight and practiced.
A floating panel hovered before her, translucent and glowing faintly with shifting letters.
He approached, footsteps hesitant against the polished marble floor that reflected his thin silhouette far too clearly.
"Invitation?" she asked without looking up.
Asher swallowed, nodding.
He fumbled briefly before producing the digital slip forwarded to him earlier that day—his name tagged beneath his friend's.
The woman's eyes flicked over it once, twice, then lingered on his surname for a fraction longer than necessary.
'Wespera'
Something subtle shifted in her expression.
Asher expected the familiarity.
She said nothing.
With a small gesture, the floating panel shimmered, then faded.
The runes on the door responded immediately, light cascading downward like liquid glass before the doors slid apart soundlessly.
"You may enter," she said, already turning her attention elsewhere.
Asher stepped forward albeit confused.
His boots sank slightly into the carpeted flooring, plush enough that each step felt muted...almost apologetic.
A short corridor stretched ahead, lined with tall pillars etched in subtle geometric patterns.
Soft light flowed along their edges, guiding guests forward without a single sign or arrow, as if direction itself was an unspoken courtesy.
It's been a long while since I saw something like this, Asher thought, his eyes tracing the faint glow as he moved.
At the corridor's end, sound finally reached him—laughter layered over overlapping conversations, the gentle swell of music threaded with voices and the clinking of glasses.
The noise felt distant yet overwhelming, like a tide waiting just beyond sight.
Asher slowed, his grip tightening around the bouquet.
Beyond the final archway, the main hall opened wide.
Crystal chandeliers hovered overhead, refracting light into cascading prisms that spilled across the floor.
Long tables draped in white and gold stretched across the expanse, crowded with people—some vaguely familiar, most complete strangers—each dressed in immaculate attire that seemed to belong naturally in a place like this.
The air carried the scent of expensive perfumes and something faintly sweet, perhaps wine, perhaps excess.
This was it.
The place where people like him were meant to remain invisible.
Asher took one step in, then another.
And another.
Until the crowd closed around him, and he was swallowed whole.
----
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