The inside of the truck smelled of old dust and peppermint air freshener. It was a humble, lived-in smell that matched the owner.
Tobey adjusted the rearview mirror, checking the road behind them as he merged onto the main highway leading toward the city skyline. The electric engine hummed quietly, a stark contrast to the roaring river they had left behind.
"I forgot to ask you, kid. Do you have a driver's license?"
Tobey felt a cold spike of fear in his chest. He panicked for a split second, glancing at the old man before quickly looking back at the road. He shook his head.
Fuck! he cursed internally. I keep forgetting I'm not on Earth anymore.
It was a force of habit—driving a car without fear, without papers, without rules. It was the perk of being a member of a notorious syndicate. But he wasn't that man anymore. He had promised himself he would never commit a crime again, yet here he was, breaking the law within hours of arriving in civilization.
Dumb fuck, he scolded himself. You didn't even notice.
"Just pray to your Deity that no police enforcer is on duty," Barren grumbled, rubbing his face. "You might get arrested. It's your fault, though. You volunteered to drive my car."
"Turn left," Barren commanded a moment later.
Tobey followed the command, grateful for the distraction. He looked out the window, his eyes scanning the city with genuine appreciation. It was a stunning place.
If the Motahowk Forest was wild, untamed beauty, Brightwood was the beauty of order. The city reminded him of Zurich back on Earth. The architecture was distinctly European—sturdy buildings made of gray stone and red brick, with high, slated roofs and small balconies overflowing with flowers. The streets were lined with old-fashioned lampposts that were likely electric but designed to look like gaslights.
But what struck him most was the cleanliness.
The gutters were free of trash. The wide sidewalks were swept clean. Even the river that wound its way through the center of the city was crystal clear, reflecting the orange light of the setting sun without a hint of pollution. It was a city that respected itself.
"You drive smoothly," Barren commented, his head leaning back against the headrest. He looked exhausted, his eyes half-closed. "For a man without a car."
"I learn fast," Tobey replied shortly, keeping his eyes on the road.
Barren turned his head slightly, studying Tobey's profile—the sharp jawline, the clear skin, the posture that remained upright even in a cramped truck seat.
"You're not from around here," Barren stated. It wasn't a question.
"No, sir. I'm from Dominica," Tobey answered, recalling the vessel's actual origins. "I grew up there."
Then I ran away.
He didn't voice that part out. He let the words hang in his throat, unspoken. There was no need to tell this stranger the rest of the story.
"Dominica?" Barren's eyes widened, and he actually took a foot off the gas pedal for a second in sheer surprise. "Good heavens, lad. That's the Northern Frontier. That's on the other side of the continent. You're talking about thousands of miles of bad road and wilderness."
"I know," Tobey said quietly. "It took a while to get here."
"A while?" Barren shook his head. "That's a migration, not a trip. Young ones these days are really adventurous, aren't they? But with your looks and aura... you really look like you're from a rich family. The 'Young Master' who got bored and crossed the world."
Tobey stayed silent, looking out the window as the trees blurred past.
Adventurous?
The memories of Timothy Gray surfaced, unbidden and cold. It hadn't been an adventure; it had been a desperate, clawing escape. It had taken Timothy four years to cross that distance. Four years of hitchhiking in cargo trucks, sleeping in barns, and working odd jobs in nameless towns, always looking over his shoulder to see if his father's men were behind him.
He had finally stopped in a town just north of here, thinking he was safe. Got adopted but his adoptive father died and he was cast out again. He had found a job, found a girl he thought loved him. But when she left him—calling him broken, calling him nothing—the last of his will snapped.
He had started walking again. Not to run away this time, but to end it. He had walked non-stop for three days and nights, ignoring the hunger and the blisters, until he collapsed into the darkness of Motahowk Forest.
He didn't walk to explore, Tobey thought, feeling a pang of sympathy for the vessel's previous soul. He walked until he couldn't take another step.
"I'm not a Young Master," Tobey finally said, pushing the heavy memories away. "Just a traveler who couldn't stay put."
"Not a Young Master," Barren repeated slowly, squinting as if trying to see through a disguise. "You know, I have a hobby of reading tabloids and business magazines. I have seen lots faces of business tycoons, politicians, celebrities. And I think I've seen your face before."
Barren leaned in slightly, studying Tobey's features.
"Not yours, obviously. But a man who looks exactly like you. The mature version."
Tobey's mind automatically recalled his father's face.
The memory belonged to Timothy Gray—the vessel. It was the face of the abusive man he had grown up with, the man who had made his childhood a living hell and forced him to run away. Tobey felt the vessel's lingering hatred for that man bubble up in his chest.
That bastard? Tobey thought bitterly. I don't look anything like him. That man was a monster; I am nothing like him.
"Maybe the one you saw just has a resemblance," Tobey deflected calmly. "Because I don't look like my father. If I brought you my father's picture, you would agree with me."
Barren didn't look convinced, but he let it slide. He looked down at Tobey's hands on the steering wheel.
"Your hands," Barren muttered, insisting on his theory. "When we shook hands, they were soft. No calluses. No scars. Those are not the hands of a worker. Are you sure you aren't running away from some arranged marriage or a corporate inheritance?"
"Not really, sir. I promise," Tobey lied without batting an eye. "I just take care of my hands."
In truth, even he couldn't explain it scientifically. When he arrived in this world, his body—this vessel—had been reconstructed. Every scar, every callus from years of hardship, every imperfection had been erased. His skin was durable like steel but soft as silk, a contradiction that defied biology. It was the result of an enhancement that went beyond mere grooming, a perfection that felt almost alien.
He glanced over at the old man, deciding to change the subject before Barren dug too deep into a mystery Tobey himself didn't fully understand.
"And right now, I'm looking for a job. Do you happen to know if anyone is hiring?"
Barren let out a short, humorless laugh. He looked out the window at the passing trees.
"Hiring? Maybe the big corporate supermarkets downtown are," Barren sighed. "But my friend's shop... it's a relic. In a fast-moving city like Brightwood, old-fashioned places like ours are getting left behind. We can't compete with the giants."
He went silent for a moment. Tobey didn't push. He let the silence do the work.
"My shop is closing," Barren admitted quietly. "Grand Dream Market. You saw the name on my car door?"
"I saw," Tobey said. "Why is it closing?"
"Bankruptcy. Debt. Lack of staff. My wife died yesterday, and my last employee quit this morning. I'm all that's left." Barren rubbed his temples. "I'm just going back to pack up a few things. Then... I don't know."
"It sounds like you need help," Tobey said.
"I need a miracle, son. Not help."
"I can be helpful," Tobey countered. "I need a place to stay. You have a building. I don't have money for rent, but I can work. I can carry boxes, guard the place at night. I can also keep the house clean for you. You're living alone now; you shouldn't have to worry about laundry or dusting while you're dealing with everything else."
Barren looked at him. "You want to work in a dead shop? For free? Just for a room?"
"Just for a room," Tobey confirmed. "I can take care of my own needs."
Barren shook his head, disbelief written all over his face. "You are a strange young man, Timothy Gray. A very strange man. But I can't let you work on an empty stomach. If you work for me, I feed you. That's the rule."
Tobey didn't argue. It was better to play along than to explain the existence of his hidden Supermarket. Besides, there was a practical issue: since his reconstruction, his appetite had become monstrous to match his strength. If he actually let this broke old man handle his meals, Barren would be penniless within few days.
"Is that a yes?"
Barren closed his eyes again. He was too tired to argue. And truthfully, the thought of walking into that empty, dark building all alone terrified him.
It wasn't just the loneliness. It was the tricks his mind played on him in the silence. Since yesterday, every time he entered a quiet room, he saw her. He would catch a glimpse of her dress turning a corner, or see her silhouette sitting in her favorite armchair by the window. He knew they were hallucinations born of grief, but the thought of facing those ghosts alone tonight was unbearable.
He needed a distraction. He needed life in the house.
"You can stay for a week," Barren whispered. "There's a guest room on the second floor. But you work for your keep. Until I found buyer to my shop."
"Deal," Tobey said.
He pressed slightly on the accelerator. The truck sped up, heading toward the heart of Brightwood.
They crossed the end of the suspension bridge and officially entered the city limits. Tobey followed Barren's tired instructions, navigating through the clean, European-style streets until they reached the 4th District.
"Slow down here," Barren murmured, opening his eyes. "On the left."
Tobey slowed the truck to a crawl.
Occupying the entire corner block was a massive two-story building made of red brick. It was impressive, with large arched windows and a high slate roof, but it looked like a ghost. The bricks were dull, the windows were dark with grime, and the sign above the entrance—GRAND DREAM MARKET—was missing several bulbs.
"That's it," Barren whispered, staring at the dark building as they rolled past. "My empire of dust."
Tobey didn't speak. His enhanced eyes scanned the structure. It was run-down, yes, but the foundation was solid. The location was prime—a corner lot in a residential district. It was a sleeping giant waiting for someone to wake it up.
"It has potential," Tobey noted quietly.
"It has debt," Barren corrected. "Keep driving. My house is three blocks down."
Tobey accelerated again, leaving the silent shop behind.
They pulled up to a modest, two-story townhouse a few minutes later. It was part of a neat row of identical houses, each with a small front garden and a painted wooden door. It was charming, quiet, and perfectly separated from the stress of the business.
Tobey parked the truck on the street.
"Home sweet home," Barren sighed, unbuckling his seatbelt.
They entered the house. It was clean but cluttered with boxes—evidence of a man who had started packing away his life before deciding to end it.
Barren tossed his keys onto a small table and walked straight to the kitchen. He looked relieved to finally be home, rubbing his stomach.
"I told my last employee, Simeon, to bring some of the leftover stock here before he quit," Barren said, reaching for the refrigerator handle. "We should have plenty of—"
He paused.
The refrigerator was completely empty. The wire racks were bare. Barren checked the pantry. Also empty.
"Ah," Barren sighed, closing the cupboard. "I told him to take his share to his family first. He probably hasn't had time to loop back here yet."
He slumped against the counter, too tired to be angry.
"Poor lad probably has his hands full. But that leaves us in a bind for tonight."
He turned to Tobey, looking apologetic.
"I'm sorry, kid. I can't offer you a meal. Simeon hasn't dropped off the supplies yet."
"It's fine," Tobey said calmly. "I told you, I'm not picky. I can handle my own—"
"No," Barren interrupted, straightening up. "I have principles. You will work for me, you eat. I can't let you starve just because my delivery is late."
Barren reached into his back pocket and pulled out his worn leather wallet. He dug through it and pulled out a single, crisp bill—a 50-Crea Note.
"There's a diner two blocks down, 'The Starlit Suppers Kitchen,'" Barren said, extending the money. "They do good takeout. Go get us two orders of the roast beef special. And make sure they give you extra gravy."
Tobey looked at the money but didn't take it immediately.
"Sir, you should know something before we start this arrangement," Tobey said seriously. "I eat a lot."
Barren looked him up and down. At seven feet tall, Tobey was a mountain of a man. His shoulders were broad, and though he wasn't bulky like a bodybuilder, his muscles were dense and tightly corded beneath his shirt.
"Well, looking at the size of you, I believe it," Barren muttered, craning his neck slightly. "Maintaining a frame like that can't be cheap."
"It isn't. I eat more than you can afford," Tobey said bluntly. "If you try to feed me on a failing budget, I'll bankrupt you in three days. Keep your money for the bills. I can handle my own food."
Barren scoffed, forcing the bill into Tobey's large hand. "Don't be arrogant. I might be broke, but I can afford a hot meal for a hungry giant. Get the roast beef. Whatever is left, spend it on yourself. Now go."
Tobey looked at the bill in his hand.
It was green, made of a textured polymer, with the face of a stern-looking woman printed on it. In the corner, stamped in holographic silver ink, was the currency symbol: a sharp V intersected by a sweeping C, the two letters locked together into a single, authoritative glyph.
It was a Crea note—the official national currency of this country. A single bill that held more purchasing power than a commoner in a medieval village would see in a lifetime.
[Currency Detected: 50 Crea]
Tobey felt a small electric thrill run through his spine. He decided not to argue further.
"I'll be right back," Tobey said.
He turned and walked out the door, the first seed of his fortune clutched tight in his fist.