After Iris introduced me to the gang members (in reality, she only introduced me to two people), at least she gave me some money, which allowed me to rent an apartment. The place smelled like a collection of feet that hadn't been washed in a thousand years, but at least it provided me with a bed and a roof over my head.
The gang's activities were not random, contrary to what I had expected. They worked as mercenaries in gang conflicts, gathering information, and stealing valuable items. This surprised me, as I didn't think anything of value could be found in this part of the city. Still, despite everything Iris had done for me, I couldn't stop suspicion from creeping in. I couldn't ignore the fact that she wasn't just an ordinary member of the Bloody Fang, but one of the influential figures in the gang. Why did she help me? Why did she give me all this? She acted like she was annoyed by my presence, yet she didn't stop helping me.
I sat on the edge of the bed staring at the ceiling while the questions circled in my head. Whatever her motives were, it didn't change a thing. In this place, it didn't matter whether you trusted someone or not. What mattered was knowing how to play your cards. And right now, Iris was the only card I had, my only ally. I currently lived in the Northern Midgar Empire, right in its beating heart (or rather, its dying heart) the imperial capital, Midlia. The city was divided into three districts.
The lower district, where I lived now, was nothing but a human swamp crammed with miserable creatures who had forgotten the taste of a decent life. Everyone here either dreamed of leaving or had even lost the will to dream. The middle district, as its name suggests, was "average" life in every sense of the word. Not a paradise, but not hell either. People there complained about taxes, but at least they had the money to pay them.
As for the upper district, it was where the nobles lived (or as I liked to call them, "mythical creatures who had never heard of the concept of taxes"). Their palaces shone so brightly you'd wonder if they were built from pure gold, and their lands were so vast they could hold the dreams of an entire city. But of course, there was no place for me there.
My goal now? To leave this filth called the lower district for the middle district. But of course, things weren't that simple. You couldn't just wake up, pack your things, and walk there like you were going on a picnic. Residents here were not allowed to leave without a special permit, and that permit was given only to certain people. I, unfortunately, was not one of those "certain" people.
The other way out? Bribe the guards. But the problem was that the amount required could only be called a fortune, and I could barely afford to stay alive for another day.
On top of that, even if I somehow managed to gather the money, there was a good chance the guards would simply take it from me without letting me pass (because they were lower district guards, and integrity was not part of their vocabulary). How did I know all this? Simply because it was in Jevan's memories. Or rather, what was left of them. Imagine your mind as an old book partially burned some pages still intact, others nothing but scattered ash with no meaning.
Unfortunately, I hadn't found in those memories any answer to the questions that really mattered to me: How did I end up in this world? Why was I here? And who was that madman who decided the best way to welcome me was to literally slit my throat? It was extremely irritating. Like an actor thrown onto a stage halfway through a play without the slightest idea of his role or even the script. And every time I tried to remember something useful, the memories would evaporate from my mind like cigarette smoke on a cold night.
I raised my hand to my face and ran my fingers over my features... not my features, but Jevan's, which now belonged to me. Whatever this reality was whether a dream, a curse, or just a sick cosmic joke I had no choice but to live it.
At least until I found a way out.
***
The old tavern was nearly empty. The bartender, Garrod, sat behind the bar, leaning on it with his massive arms folded across his broad chest. His stern features betrayed no emotion. Bald headed, muscular, and with a presence that demanded attention even in silence, he was a man you couldn't ignore, even if you tried.
Iris rested her elbow on the wooden counter and motioned to him silently. He didn't need an explanation, and within moments, a cup of liquor was in front of her.
But he didn't return to his work as usual. Instead, he fixed his gaze on her and said in his deep voice:
"Why did you ask me to take that man in?"
"What man?" she replied coldly, though she knew exactly who he meant.
"That young man with brown hair and crimson eyes."
She took a sip of her drink before answering:
"He said he needed a job, so I got him one. It's that simple."
"Have you suddenly become a philanthropist?"
"You're the last person who has the right to say that, Mr. President. But since you brought it up, why did you agree to take him in so quickly? I expected you to refuse at first, or at least look into his background before giving him a chance."
He didn't answer right away. He rested his elbow on the counter, leaned forward slightly, and then said:
"Normally, yes, I would have. But..."
"But what?"
"That man is special."
She frowned slightly, turning her glass between her fingers while watching the liquid inside.
"And how do you know that?"
"I have a feeling. And my feeling has never been wrong."
She shook her head, half smiling, half thoughtful.
"Let's hope it hasn't failed you this time."