The dealer woke up with a smile.
Today was a new day, and he hadn't gotten any requests for the past two days.
Without any new jobs, the dealer was finally able to lie around and take a break.
Sunlight hit his face, his indicator to get up.
[The dealer] "–––––"
He yawned, filling his tiny room with sound.
As soon as he got up, he slipped immediately into routine.
First, he checked his mirror. It was a necessary ritual every morning since what happened.
Scanning the mirror, he found nothing wrong. Everything seemed right; there weren't any anomalies, and upon checking, the napkin wedged in his door hadn't moved.
[The dealer] "Nobody broke in."
With that statement, the dealer sighed in relief. Today seemed normal.
He went to the other bathroom in his cozy apartment, the one he actually used. This bathroom didn't have any mirrors, contrary to the first one. Since that night, the dealer had developed a fear of mirrors, with good reason, of course.
The dealer followed the same steps any ordinary person would: brushed his teeth, took care of his already flawless pale skin, then groomed his hair.
He combed it back, then shook his head, letting it fall back onto his face.
The lengthy black strands constantly got in the way of his sight, but it didn't matter much. Humans cared more about seeming presentable anyway, so he should, too.
Doing these self-care rituals without seeing himself was difficult at first, but it was better than doing them in front of a mirror. The dealer adapted — that's why he was never caught. The same principle applies to skincare as well.
Regardless, clients never complained about his looks; some even went as far as to compliment him.
With a few steps and the shutting of a door, the dealer finished the first part of his routine. The next part? Dietary care.
Soon, the dealer found himself in his kitchen. He grabbed the refrigerator door and opened it to retrieve some eggs to cook.
It always bugged him that clients showed up looking unprofessional. Some looked famished, some gluttonous. Some looked filthy; others didn't even look human — they called it a surgery.
Whatever it was, the dealer was grateful he'd never paid for one; the sight of those surgeries was always uncomfortable.
Clink.
The dealer tapped his spatula against the pan's edge, watching as the yolk trembled.
[The dealer] "–––––"
These kinds of days were the ones the dealer loved — slothful and unproductive. Honestly, he'd been overworked lately; it would be amazing if more people could give him breaks like this.
Plop.
As the egg slid onto his plate, the dealer came to a conclusion — an easy one. He didn't truly want a break. After all, without work, there was no pay; without pay, there was no rent.
The dealer walked back to his room and grabbed his laptop from the nightstand.
It was the one he used for business, so every morning he checked it. For the last two days, to his relief, he'd gotten no new messages apart from spam.
Well, actually, that was a lie. He had three new messages as of an hour ago.
A scowl crept across the dealer's face, replacing his earlier smile.
[The dealer] "I hate my job."
And who wouldn't? The only thing redeemable about it was the pay. Thanks to this job, the dealer could almost confidently say he was the richest person in the alleyways.
Not that it meant much — the alleys were a pretty broke place anyway. Even the governor relied on the president for cash.
The three messages came from two separate contacts, both unknown.
One was from someone named "Rowan." The first name didn't ring a bell; it was a pretty generic name, but the last name — "Pell" — did.
The boy was just a kid; why he needed a memory was beyond the dealer. Nonetheless, he read the offer.
Rowan was the top of his school — a prodigy in all educational fields. The dealer had no doubt he'd make it out of the alleys one day.
The boy offered twenty gold coins for whatever memory he could get.
The dealer thought for a while — not because he was considering it, but because he was wondering how to decline. As soon as he read the message, he laughed internally.
After a moment, he drafted a polite rejection and sent it, hoping the kid wouldn't take it too harshly.
Next was the other message — a long one. Its contents described an offer to continue the conversation over a call, with a very gracious sum of money promised in return.
Naturally, after reading that last part, the dealer couldn't hold himself back. He picked up his phone and dialed the number.
After a two-hour call, the deal was set. He'd agreed early on, meaning there was no going back. A total of around a thousand gold coins was promised in return.
Still, the caller's anonymity left him skeptical. The details of the memory weren't to be discussed until they met in person — in a specific alley.
Nevertheless, there wasn't a soul the dealer couldn't escape, so the risk felt negligible.
Finally, his morning ritual was done, and it was time to go outside.
Usually, he had nothing to do, and today was no different — except he was back to work.
Walking helped him organize his thoughts; self-organization was almost as important as appearance, making it just as crucial as any other ritual.
Soon, the dealer noticed something odd: a heavily dressed stranger was stalking another person. The stalker wore long dark robes that stood out starkly against the daylight.
[The dealer] "Hey, need anything?"
He approached the stalker, distracting him from the woman he'd been watching.
[???] "Actually, yeah. This is a coincidence, is it not?"
The words came out joyfully — almost like a laugh.
[???] "I was actually looking for you."
The dealer raised an eyebrow.
[The dealer] "You sure? Looked like you were staring at that woman who just ran off."
Any sane person would freeze or hesitate at a confrontation like that — but the man smiled.
[???] "I was waiting for you. She just reminded me of someone, that's all."
"Waited for me?" the dealer thought.
[The dealer] "So what do you need from me, then?"
The man stayed silent for a moment, then motioned for the dealer to follow.
Soon, they arrived at a porch where a table for two was already set.
[???] "Sit."
With such a pleasant voice, the dealer's worries eased.
Not just his worries — his senses, too. So when the man offered him a drink, he didn't refuse.
[???] "Let's make a deal."
After a single sip, a thud echoed — the dealer was knocked unconscious.
The last thing he saw was a wisp of smoke.