“I’ll be on my way. Lex, try to convince Pastor John to get me a job. Tell him I’m homeless and good with manual labor.”

  He answered, “Let’s see if that can be done. Trust always goes a long way.”

  After that exchange, I headed to the bank. Surprisingly, it was pretty empty at this hour. I talked to the receptionist, followed standard protocol, and handed over Mr. Brim’s letter.

  She looked at it with an indifferent expression and said, “Haaa, one of those, I see. Gotta process this one differently.”

  Then she pulled out a book with strange decorations and a pen filled with red ink. Did it just... bubble? I must be seeing things.

  “Sign here... and here. All transactions are final. Final requirement completed by Mr. Brim’s proxy,” she said, monotone. “Here’s your card. It’s only to be used to buy necessities. Here’s a list of shops that accept this currency.”

  I took the list. It read: Ana’s Shop, Doctor’s Paradise, Clothes for the Damned, Mystery Trader Inc. and some other bizarre names I’d never heard of.

  “I don’t know any of these shops,” I told her. “How do I even get to them?”

  She just stared at me like it wasn’t her problem and waved me off. “Next,” she called out.

  Frustrated, I screamed internally, How the hell am I getting food?!

  Time to hit the soup kitchen again... a single tear rolled down my cheek as I remembered—rent’s due next month

  While walking to the soup kitchen, I felt like someone was following me. I don’t know if it was instinct or my training kicking in, but I casually slipped into an alleyway. Spotting some trash, I picked up an empty bottle and pretended to be dumpster diving.

  “Jackpot! Still got something to drink,” I muttered, playing the part as I slowly made my way toward the corner. I took a furtive glance behind me—and saw a man in a heavy trench coat. But when I tried to look at his face... I couldn’t register any features. It was as if my brain refused to form a memory of his face.

  Freaking out, I dropped the act entirely. No way I was going to face something that unsettling on my own. I bolted toward the other end of the alley, near the Commissariat's execution grounds. They were holding a session at this time of day. Catching my breath, I glanced back.

  To my dismay, he was still coming—menacingly, clutching something in his coat pocket.

  “Special operator!” I yelled, pointing toward the trench coat man. The Commissar, mid-speech, snapped to attention.

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  “Where? Get him!”

  The man stopped, hand still in his coat, and like a ghost, slipped into an adjacent building—vanishing without a trace.

  I took the chance and ran as far away as possible. I was lost now, but I still had to find a place to buy some equipment.

  That’s when I saw a row of strange shops. One caught my eye: Clothes for the Damned.

  Maybe—just maybe—my luck is finally turning around.

  I enter the shop, and at first glance, it looks like an ordinary clothing store. The shopkeeper, an experienced-looking tailor with a charming demeanor, greets me warmly.

  "Welcome! It’s rare to see new customers in this place. We offer all sorts of wares—sometimes, as a service, we give you exactly what you need."

  I take no mind of his comment—it’s only natural for shopkeepers to use flowery words. I start to peruse the selection. Some clothes are flamboyant, others are common. I spot a few exotic pieces here and there, but nothing screams this is what I need.

  I ask him, "Is that all you have in your selection?"

  He replies, "The VIPs get the best benefits. Do you have the card by any chance?"

  I show him Mr. Brim’s card. He exclaims, “Excellent! Just wait a second while I check the back.”

  Suddenly, I hear a loud sound—like thunder hitting stone. I remain stoic. After being chased by a faceless man, I’m honestly starting to question if I’m developing dementia.

  The shopkeeper returns with a box of tools, nightwear for exploration, and a strange monocle marked with a Dark Sun sigil.

  I ask, “What is all this?”

  He replies with a hearty laugh, “Exactly what you need.”

  “How do I pay?”

  “It’s all covered. Just give me the card.”

  He takes the card to the back, and I hear a scream—loud and unintelligible, like something beyond human comprehension. Yep, I’m definitely going insane.

  The shopkeeper returns, hands me back the card, and says, “Thank you for doing business with us. Please come again!”

  I walk out of the shop in a stupor and drift aimlessly toward the corner. Then it hits me—I almost forgot to ask him about the locations of the other shops on the list.

  When I turn around the corner to head back... the shop isn’t there anymore...

  I'm 100% sure I haven’t touched the bottle in a while. This must surely be a deficiency in my “vitamins”—there’s no other explanation.

  Bottling up this whole experience and tossing it straight into the Forget-Me section of my brain, I head back home to get ready for tonight’s preparations.

  Let’s just get some snooze time… before reality tries to pull another fast one on me.

  I wake up, suit up, and put the monocle in my front pocket, carefully navigating my way toward the parish. I'm hearing the nightly choir, and someone's voice is markedly noticeable. It's drawing the attention of the nightly pedestrians—and I spot Sophia??? She's talking to a sophisticated-looking gentleman. He gives her a music box??

  They part ways. Sophia sneakily opens the music box in the direction of Lex? What the hell am I seeing??

  Either way, I continue toward the cemetery and sneak in through the not-so-troublesome fencing. There are some tombstones scattered here and there. Some of the mausoleums look newly constructed; others seem older than the city itself. I don’t notice anything of note—until I remember the monocle.

  I put it on… and everything changes.

  There it is—the door. The one from that dream. But it's different now. Ordained with umbral iconography, everything around it churns and warps like reflections in rippling water. It's positioned above a tombstone, like a dark sun casting light on the grave.

  I approach the grave cautiously, hoping it will offer some clue to this mystery. The name on the tombstone reads:

  Jason [Unintelligible].

  Before I can react, I hear thunder crack and fall forward toward the grave, only to hear the steady boots of a man approaching.

  He says:

  "Too soon. Try again—after everything is just like the door wants."