Michael returned to the inn.
Even though he could have gone to Earth—since his business here was already done—he chose to return to the inn instead. The reason was simple: he didn't want to draw unnecessary attention or suspicion. Besides, technically, it was his temporary address, after all. There was also another reason.
The inn was nearly empty now. Most people were still out finishing their daily work. It was only afternoon; people would start coming in later, after dusk.
"You came back early."
Michael turned toward the voice.
A silver-haired elf woman stood near the counter, wearing her usual maid uniform—a crisp black-and-white outfit that somehow managed to look both modest and mischievous. Her expression was calm, but her violet eyes gleamed with a teasing light.
She looked about twenty-five, maybe thirty—but with elves, guessing age was an exercise in futility.
He didn't know much about her background—only that she seemed to be the inn's only maid, since he'd never seen another one. He often wondered how she managed everything on her own. There was one other… notable thing about her—her E-cup cantaloupe.
Michael couldn't help but be impressed. After all, he was a healthy man—and, more importantly, a man with no girlfriend.
"Hey, are you listening?"
The elf tilted her head, one eyebrow arching slightly. Her lips curved into a half-smile, as if she'd caught him red-handed.
"Ah, yes." He coughed lightly, trying to compose himself.
"So?" she said, resting a hand on her hip. "How was your first day as a merchant, mister?" Her tone carried a mix of curiosity and playful amusement.
"Well, it was great. I sold my goods faster than I expected, made way more profit than I planned, and even gained quite a few customers."
The elf smiled, genuinely this time. "Wow, that's wonderful." Then her tone softened, becoming more serious. "But I'd still advise you to be careful. Success like that doesn't always make you friends."
Her playful air faded for a moment, replaced by something older—something that belonged to someone who'd seen many things.
Michael frowned. "Huh, why did you say that?"
"It's just a warning for your own good," she said quietly, her fingers tightening slightly on the edge of her apron. "I've seen plenty of outsider merchants come and go through this inn. None of them lasted long." Her gaze met his, firm and unflinching. "Things here aren't as easy as they seem. You look like a simple, straightforward person, so I thought I should tell you. I'd hate to see someone with such a cute face get swallowed up by this city's darker side."
Michael blinked.
[Host: analyzing her expression… she doesn't seem to have any bad intentions for now. However, you don't have enough levels or skills to analyze her properly yet.]
Uh… forget that for now. Do I really look like a naive guy?
And—wait—did she just call me cute? No one has ever called me that.
♦♦♦
Earth side—Citra, Lexing State, 11:00 p.m.
Lexing State sits next to Washington, D.C. It's the twenty-second state of the United States—small in size, yes, but one of the richest and most populous states in the country.
Citra was its second-largest city, known as Lexing's college town because more than half of the state's colleges were clustered there. Lexing State University was here, too, and students came from across Lexing and beyond; there were even many international students attracted by the low tuition and available scholarships.
...
Right now, on a Citra street, a twenty-two-year-old guy was riding an electric scooter.
He wore a clearance parka with a missing snap and a secondhand helmet with a scuff along the side.
The street wasn't exactly dead, but it wasn't busy either—it was late.
The man rode with an easy, casual air until a speeding BMW blew past him so close the gust made his secondhand scooter wobble. He slammed the brakes.
He was about to mutter something pissed off when the car pulled up in front of him again. He bristled; the vehicle stopped and blocked the path right in front of his scooter.
First, the driver's door opened and a guy climbed out—the same age as him, but with his face wrapped in bandages as if someone had punched the hell out of him. He wore expensive clothes that made it clear—he was rich.
Two more doors opened. One guy stepped out in a varsity jacket; the other wore a suit without a tie.
"Ah, ugh."
"Evening, Rick," the bandaged guy said, and the two behind him grinned with that kind of dominance smile rich kids practice.
Rick took off his helmet and tried to smile—big and stupid. "You following me for fan-club sign-ups? Ten bucks a month. I know you can swing it—for guys like me, ten bucks is a lot, but for you, Ryan Carter, it's nothing."
"Hey, shut up with your useless talking, you motherfucker, and just tell us—where is he?" Ryan snapped, rage burning through him.
"Who?"
"Don't act like you don't know. I'm talking about Michael. He was your roommate, right? Where the hell did this motherfucker go?"
A week ago, Michael had floored Ryan at the campus. Since then, Ryan had been in the hospital. Now he stood there in a clean jacket with a white bandage across the bridge of his nose. He carried that particular kind of fury rich boys develop when they're humiliated—and now he wanted revenge.
Rick kept his face open—not great at showing feelings but good at making noise. "He left after the suspension, man. It was a week ago. That's all I know."
"Where?"
Rick said. "His hometown. That's what he told me."
The man in the suit—hands shoved in his pockets—spoke in a tone that suggested suspicion. "You're sure, or are you trying to protect your little friend? Because if you are, you'll be in trouble too."
"I'm not his travel agent."
Ryan grabbed Rick by the collar and pulled him close. "Tell your fucking friend that I'm waiting for him. I will kill him when I see him again."
The friend in the varsity jacket spoke up. "You know Vanessa's done with him because of Michael? He embarrassed my boy. You get that?"
Ryan cut him a look, then stared Rick down again. "You know my father is one of the most powerful people in this city, and your asshole friend humiliated me," he said, tapping the bandage. "No one has ever humiliated me like that. But now, the people who once didn't even dare to speak against me—they laugh at me when they see me, as if I'm some kind of circus clown. And it's all because of him." He trembled with anger. "So if you're covering for him, remember—if I want, I can make you disappear at any moment. Michael has run away, but you won't be able to."
Rick held his hands up. "Look, man, I don't cover for anyone. Respect is earned, right? You know the line." He tried to grin; it trembled. "Michael and I aren't even tight anymore."
"I don't care." Ryan straightened Rick's collar in a show of dominance. "You have one week to bring Michael back here. If you fail, I don't have to tell you what will happen to you. Understand?"
Ryan then slipped two hundred-dollar bills into Rick's pocket and walked toward his car. The other two followed and got in as well.
Rick watched as the BMW sped away. He let out a long breath he hadn't known he was holding.
Then he yanked the bills out of his pocket.
"Buy me off like I'm some damn errand boy? But…" He stared at the two crisp hundred-dollar bills, lost in thought.
It might not mean much to most people—but for Rick, who came from a struggling middle-class family, that was a lot. It could cover a week or two of groceries.
Then he remembered Michael's face.
"...Damn it," Rick muttered, shoving the cash deep into his pocket. "It's not like I've got a choice."