Stick let out a long, slow breath. His mind rebelled against the comfort of the cot, reminding him of the uncertainties that awaited tomorrow. He opened his eyes again and rose from the cot. He moved to the small window to look outside. The market was slowly emptying out. The once-vibrant stalls were closing one by one, and people—merchants, shoppers, workers—were packing up their wares. The streets were a mix of hurried movements and tired faces, each person seeming to carry some invisible burden. Stick watched them—he couldn’t help it. They wore clothes that marked their social class, some richly embroidered, others frayed with use. There were smiles and nods exchanged, but mostly, there was a quiet exhaustion in the air. The merchants packed away their goods: gems, weapons, spices, food. So many items, so much life, vanishing into inventories, becoming nothing more than transactions. He stood there for a long time, watching it all disappear, and the questions echoed in his mind: Is that what I’m supposed to do now? Is that the life of a Player?

  It gnawed at him. He felt so disconnected, like the time he watched his fellow slaves during the twins' birthday drinking and dancing, their lives untouched for that evening by the chaos and injustice that the Adventurers caused. He couldn’t relate to them, whatever they were called: the slaves, the NPCs, the Adventurers or Players. He couldn’t relate to them. Not fully. Here he was, standing on the outside looking in again, but it was worse this time. He wasn’t just watching anymore. He was part of it all, yet still so separate from it. The people around him had no idea what had happened at the estate, no idea about the bloodshed, the power games or the trials. They went on with their lives, as if everything was normal, unaware that the kingdom that granted them their comfortable lives inside the capital was rotten. Or worse: they were indifferent. Stick clenched his fists, his reflection in the glass staring back at him. Should I just join them? Pretend none of this matters, pretend everything’s fine?

  No. That wasn’t an option. Not for him. He couldn’t ignore what had happened—what was still happening. The kingdom needed to change, but how? And where did he fit into all of this now that his freedom had been handed to him like a scrap tossed to a stray dog? As the evening wore on, the market began to empty. People shuffled out, their faces tired but resigned, as though the world kept turning no matter how much they longed to stop. Stick stepped outside, lingering in the doorway. He watched as the final carts were packed up, the goods slipping away into darkness. And then, amid the sea of faces, something—someone—caught his eye. Beckett.

  He was hastily bargaining with a vegetable vendor, trying to convince him to stay just a little longer. Stick’s feet moved before he could stop them, rushing out of the house past PP and pushing through the thinning crowd to reach Beckett. When he finally caught up, Beckett had already packed the last of his goods into his Inventory.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Beckett!” Stick called out, his voice sharper than he intended.

  Beckett turned, his face darkening at the sight of Stick. “What do you want?”

  Stick hesitated, unsure of what had moved him to come over there.

  “I… I don’t want anything,” he muttered, and then, in a rush, added, “Can I ask you something?”

  Beckett’s eyes narrowed. “What now?”

  “Why did you lie at the trial?” Stick blurted out, suddenly unable to hold the question in. “Why did you lie about me?”

  Beckett’s face soured, his lips curling into a bitter smile.

  “Isn’t it obvious? The Baron told me to. If I didn’t, I would’ve lost my job. And now, well…” He shrugged, a hollow look in his eyes. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Stick pressed on, despite the sinking feeling in his chest. “But when they asked you about the insurrection—why did you pin the blame on Shadis? Did you even know what he was doing? Or was it just because you hate NPCs that much?”

  Beckett’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer right away. The silence hung between them like a thick fog.

  “I’m just doing my job,” Beckett muttered after a moment. “All I wanted was a quiet life in the capital. If you had just taken the Baron’s offer, I’d be a city guard by now. But you had to screw it up.”

  He gave Stick a look that mixed frustration and resignation. “You fucked up my retirement. But I guess you’ve paid for it. You’ve been dogged and beaten long enough.”

  The words hit harder than Stick expected. He opened his mouth but found no response. Instead, he just nodded, the heavy silence closing in again.

  “What now?” Stick asked quietly, the question lingering in the air between them.

  “I don’t know,” Beckett replied, looking down at his feet. “You’ve got 100 gold now, compensation for your troubles. Half a year’s salary. Do whatever you want with it.”

  Stick blinked. “Half a year’s salary?”

  Beckett made a vague motion to leave. “Yeah. So, I guess… good luck.”

  Stick stared at Beckett as he turned to go, something tightening in his chest. Without thinking, he reached into his Inventory and pulled out a pouch of [100 Gold], holding it out towards Beckett.

  “I’m giving it back,” Stick said softly.

  Beckett paused, looking back at him with a mix of disbelief and something else. “You sure about that?”

  “I’m sure,” Stick answered. “It’s from Cadmun. I hope you can forgive him.”

  For a moment, Beckett’s eyes softened, as though the weight of Stick’s words had reached him. But just as quickly, the bitterness returned, and he snorted, shaking his head.

  “If you’re so infatuated with NPCs, why don’t you just buy them off the Baron?”

  Stick didn’t respond. He didn’t have the answer. And with that, Beckett walked away, disappearing into the crowd and leaving Stick alone with his Gold. Stick stood there for a long time, the weight of his own freedom pressing harder than any chain.

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