I give the address to the driver, and we start moving.It's been a while since I last had real contact with the outside world—I don't even have a cellphone. So yeah, I have a few things to take care of in the capital city… but why not play tourist while I'm at it?
During those three years, I made one million, just like they said. I sent two hundred thousand back home to my mother. Maybe that'll calm her anger a little. The rest stayed with me.
I really want to open a decent restaurant.One where I'm the manager and not a complete asshole. One where I take care of the kitchen every Sunday.but It's been a long time since I've cooked—everything I ate these past years came sealed in a package.
And yet, as strange as it sounds—even though this has been my dream for a long time…
I don't feel accomplished.
The cab slows down. Time to pay the driver.
We reach a modest neighborhood.
The kind of place where nothing ever seems to go wrong. The kind that makes you imagine a normal life: a family, a stable job, coming home every night to a warm house and a beautiful wife waiting with dinner. In other words, it's very easy to associate this place with domestic bliss.
The cab comes to a stop.
I get out and look around. One house stands out immediately.
A Tesla is parked in front of it. The house itself is white, two stories tall, perfectly maintained. The garden is immaculate—it looks like someone used a ruler to cut the grass—packed with plants I can't name but can instantly tell are expensive.
Probably more expensive than my dream restaurant.
The view is oddly calming. I could stare at the landscape for hours, still in awe of how everything fits together.
I walk up to the door and knock.Not aggressively. Not urgently.
Whatever comes next won't be easy, so I steady my breathing and wait.
Ten minutes.
No answer.
Guess no one's home.
There's nothing I can do for now.
It's been a long time since I've had a real day off. So why not use it? I could just enjoy the view… or maybe find a bar, have a drink, and come back later.
I go with the second option.
I start walking. It shouldn't be hard to find a place for a drink, right?
Thirty minutes later, walking in a straight line, I find a place called Velvet Hour. The name sounds a little odd, but who cares.
I step inside—
—and immediately notice the interior designer has a serious obsession with purple and neon lights.
I sit at the bar and ask for a scotch.
The bartender looks at me and grins.
"Wow, what do we have here? A tough guy."
I swallow hard, not sure what to say.
"Aren't you shy? Don't worry—this brother will help you."
"Sorry," I ask carefully, "help me with what exactly?"
"It's okay. No one judges here. Tell me—are you a girl in a boy's body, or do you enjoy giving love?"
"…Sorry, what?" I say, my face going pale.
"Yeah, big guy. Are you the one who gives or receives?" he asks, giving me a very meaningful look.
That's when it finally clicks.
I stand up.
"Thank you very much for the chat," I say politely, "but I should get going now or I'll be late."
—and I step back out.
My first try turns out to be a gay bar.
Not my vibe.
This time, I decide to ask for directions. I walk into a nearby gas station and ask the attendant where I can get a drink without getting into the wrong convesation
He recommends Red Knuckles.
I don't overthink it.
Fifteen minutes later, I see it.
The place is covered in scars—on the walls, the furniture, the people. Rough. Loud. Familiar. The interior designer here didn't even bother with proper lighting.
Even though the food in the camp was tasteless, it did its job. I still don't know what the hell I was eating half the time, but it built muscle. Now I'm bulky enough to blend in here without drawing attention.
I sit at the bar, almost order a whisky—
Then I stop.
The Macallan trauma is still very much alive.
"Give me a Cuba libre," I say.
The bartender nods. No questions asked.
Four minutes later, he brings it.
Ice cubes. Black beauty. Rum. A slice of lemon.
I don't even get a chance to choose the rum—but it's definitely pirate rum. Strong.
Exactly how it's supposed to be.
I'm about to order a second round when I notice her.
Curvy woman. Dark hair. Jeans, high boots, and a top that barely holds her… personality.
She walks in, drops herself onto the stool next to mine like her bad mood triples her weight, and starts hammering her phone with furious texts.
Bad day written all over her face.
Just passing by. Take it easy. No need to complicate things, I tell myself.
That girl smells like bad news.
So I do the smartest thing I can.
I play dead.
Second drink in hand. Silence on my side.
Then I hear:
"You can't control my life over my dead body. I'll be marrying that idiot—I'd rather face the consequences."
I don't move.
"In fact, there's someone else I have in my heart. He's strong. A full-fledged master—not like those pussies you send to follow me."
She goes quiet for a few seconds, then continues:
"Right now, I'm with him. Try anything you want. I'll make sure you regret it."
I glance around.
No one near us. Just a few whispers from the crowd.
Okay.
Strike one.
Then:
"What the fuck do you mean he's wearing a black jacket? Are you playing stupid fortune teller now?"
I look down at myself.
Black jacket.
Great.
Strike two.
And to seal this masterpiece:
"Are you threatening me, Bill? You have no balls. Screw it—I'm not coming back."
Threat.
Strike three.
Yeah. I'm done.
I slide a fifty onto the counter, stand up calmly, and prepare to get the fuck out of Red Knuckles before my perfectly quiet drink turns into someone else's life problem.
Then I hear, casually:
"Hey. You. The one trying to sneak out."
Fuck.
I know I shouldn't move.