State of Waldfac, Yharnam City.
November 30th, Rain.
On the streets of deep winter, pedestrians were scarce.
In a dark alley untouched by streetlights, Geralt jammed a rusty wire into the keyhole of a door and gave it a gentle twist.
Click.
The lock cylinder made a faint metallic sound. The door yielded effortlessly.
Geralt grinned, a silent chuckle escaping him. The smile cracked his dry, grime-stained lips, drawing a few beads of blood.
Asian households rarely hired butlers. Those stingy yellow-skins were cheaper than woodland spirits. Forget a butler—they timed their light usage down to the minute. It was... unfathomable.
Geralt gently locked the door behind him, a thrill of excitement coursing through him. It left his mouth feeling parched.
Fishing a dried cigarette butt from his pocket, he chewed it slowly. Only when the last hint of bitterness faded did he tuck the remaining wad under his tongue.
Stepping lightly down a hallway carpeted in "black velvet," Geralt recalled the results of his days of casing the joint.
This was the old district of Yharnam City, 33 Walker Street.
A three-story apartment building.
It had three floors, five rooms per floor, and a shared washroom.
God knows what year this three-story block was built; the structure was severely dilapidated. The white paint on the exterior walls had entirely peeled off, and sprawling dark-green ivy had laid claim to the entire south wall.
By Geralt's conservative estimate, that wall's foundation had already been completely compromised by the ivy roots. A single heavy downpour could bring the whole thing crashing down.
Even the most destitute coal miner would think twice before renting a place in this building. Only the cheapest Asian immigrant would actually buy a dump like this.
Geralt harbored a deep-seated animosity toward Asians. They had invaded the places that rightfully belonged to him, earning the money that should have been his.
Ever since the Empire opened its borders to immigrants, throngs of them had poured in, rapidly taking root in the greatest land in the world. As long as it made money, they'd do any job. And whatever they did, they worked themselves to the bone.
Geralt's eyes darted around, taking in the living room's layout, idly rolling the cigarette butt under his tongue even though it had lost all its flavor.
If some Asian kid hadn't stolen his cigarette-peddling gig, he'd still be making a decent living instead of resorting to burglary.
If he just sold 10 cigarettes a day, his boss would leave a pound's worth of loose change wrapped in two crisp copies of the Borning Evening Post inside his little suitcase on the first two days of every month. That one pound was enough to buy him black bread with bacon, mint gruel, and a room in a youth hostel with actual blinds for a whole month.
But everything was ruined by that kid.
Geralt absentmindedly chewed the cigarette butt to mush. He still couldn't fathom how that kid managed to sell 200 cigarettes in a single day.
He forced himself to stop ruminating. Today, he was here to make money. He was going to take back everything that had been stolen from him.
Treading softly into the living room, Geralt's attention was drawn to a framed photograph in the most conspicuous spot.
It featured two young Asians. The man on the left was the owner of the apartment.
While casing the place, Geralt had mapped out his daily routine. The man always left the house at 6:00 AM, walking out of Walker Street alongside the laborers. But instead of heading to the Industrial District, he would board the Route 108 Steam Bus heading downtown.
He took the last bus back, got off at 10:10 PM, and walked through his door at exactly 10:18 PM. For 35 consecutive days, the timing never fluctuated by more than 5 minutes.
A sophisticated word popped into Geralt's head: Discipline.
Glancing at the grandfather clock on the north side of the hall, he noted the time.
9:00 PM on the dot.
He had 1 hour and 18 minutes before the owner returned. More than enough time to ransack the entire apartment. He might even have time to take a half-hour nap on the master's soft bed!
Despite the risk of reopening the cracks on his dry lips, Geralt smiled again.
He looked at the person on the right side of the photo.
It was clearly a girl with long hair, her arm looped through the apartment owner's, her head tilted slightly and resting on his shoulder. The background was a seascape with white clouds.
The strange thing was, the girl had no face.
More accurately, her face had been completely scribbled out with black ink, making her features impossible to discern.
Geralt sneered.
He had seen plenty of immigrant merchants strike it rich and find new lovers. Scribbling her face out was just his way of avoiding her gaze. Keeping the photo, though, was just lingering sentimentality.
Heh. I've seen too many of these types.
He walked over to a desk in the corner and found a single penny on the surface.
A single penny couldn't even buy a piece of black bread.
Unsatisfied, he pulled open the top drawer of the desk. There was no money inside, only a slip of paper.
Geralt picked it up. It read:
[Between 10:00 AM and 10:00 PM, you must not be at home.]
His expression shifted. What did this note mean? Why couldn't anyone be home during this time?
It was exactly 9:00 PM—smack in the middle of that prohibited window!
Geralt whipped around, scanning his surroundings.
The ordinary room suddenly felt... different.
Something eerie seemed to writhe in the shadows. The flickering light casting through the window screen onto the carpet felt noticeably dimmer than before.
Aside from that, nothing else appeared.
Fucking hell, playing ghosts and demons! Trying to scare me!
Angered by his sudden spike of fear, he tore the note into pieces and tossed it aside.
He yanked open the second drawer.
[If you are at home between 10:00 AM and 10:00 PM, please turn on the lights. Write your name on the back of this note, and put it in your pocket.]
Geralt swallowed hard, dropping the note as if it had shocked him.
He cast a nervous glance around, but couldn't find a light switch. Instinctively, he looked up.
There was no chandelier on the ceiling! This godforsaken room didn't even have a light!
Fuck it! I'm taking the cash and leaving!
He had stalked this place for an entire week; he refused to leave empty-handed.
He crouched down and pulled out the third drawer.
Inside was another slip of paper. It contained just three simple words.
[Please turn around.]
Upon seeing those words, Geralt's heart skipped a beat.
Beads of cold sweat the size of soybeans rolled down his cheeks, slipping into his patched wool sweater.
The only sound in the room was the swinging of the clock pendulum.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
He swallowed forcefully and suddenly lowered his head, frantically searching for the previous note. His intuition screamed at him to write his name on it, or an unforeseen consequence would follow.
Strangely, even though he had just tossed it aside, he couldn't find it anywhere.
He scrambled on the floor, trembling violently, teetering on the edge of madness.
Suddenly, he froze.
Because a pair of feet had appeared right in front of him.
Feet wearing white high heels.