Chapter One: The Choice

Verak sat in a daze for over half an hour before snuffing out his cigarette, rising from his desk, and stepping into the cramped room where a makeshift darkroom had been set up. Without a second thought for whether the negatives would be ruined by the light, he tore down the opaque cloth that blocked the window.

Light poured in, bringing a faint glow to the room that hadn't seen sunlight since Verak became a photographer. He pushed open the window as well. The sky was a dull gray; in the distance, the steel mill rumbled, and the humid air was thick with a nauseating stench.

Back in this long-familiar yet hostile environment, Verak's face remained as cold and impassive as ever. He gazed out across the endless sprawl of the ruined slums, his eyes flickering with thought.

It was hard to believe, but he truly had returned to two months ago.

He didn't want to dwell on why such a bizarre thing had happened to him. After all, in two months' time, he was supposed to die in a conspiracy disguised as an accident. Gratitude for this second chance now overwhelmed any fear.

Today was Saturday, July 15th, 1433. Saturday had always been his fixed weekly day off during his years as a photographer. And July 15th was the day that changed his life.

If none of it had been a dream, then tonight, a group of people sent from the capital, Laizen, would come seeking him, intending to bring him back to impersonate the deceased eldest son of the Thomas family and resolve their corporate crisis.

He remembered that night vividly, and easily calculated that in four or five hours, the Thomas family’s people would come knocking and, half by force, take him to Laizen.

“Nord, Demps…” Two friends' names surfaced in Verak’s mind.

When the Thomas family arrived, Nord and Demps happened to be there as well. The Thomas family had initially planned to eliminate these two, who held no value for them, to prevent any possible leaks. But at Verak’s insistence, both were taken to the capital, Laizen, only to die with him in that same conspiracy.

Just as their names rose in his mind, there was a sudden knock at the door.

Standing by the window, Verak snapped back to himself, turned, and went to open the door.

Standing outside was Nord, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a meal, grinning in a beige trench coat. He was four years younger than Verak, only twenty-two this year. “Demps said he’s going to shower first and will come by afterward.”

On Saturdays, most workers in the Bresse Republic could get off work a few hours early. As their only bit of leisure time each week, Nord and Demps usually spent it with Verak, sharing a meal and some drinks, enjoying a rare moment of relaxation.

“Mm.” Remembering the fate that would befall Nord and Demps two months from now, Verak took the takeout meal, set it on the long table, and reminded, “Your boots are filthy, all muddy. Leave them at the door.”

“In a place like this, being a clean freak is practically a fatal flaw, but I like it,” Nord joked, already used to Verak’s quirks. He took off his boots at the door with practiced ease. Barefoot, he noticed the open window. “Why’d you open the window?”

Verak, still lost in thought, replied casually, “Since I’m off today, thought I’d redo the blackout.”

“Oh.” Nord didn’t question it, sitting at the table and looking around. “Where’s that bottle of wine I brought over the other day?”

“Up there. Find it yourself.” Verak sat at his desk, lighting another cigarette.

Nord got up, found the bottle he’d brought a few days before on the shelf, and poured himself half a glass, leisurely sipping. “You seem preoccupied today.”

“You’re overthinking it,” Verak replied with a slight shake of his head, wrestling with whether he should run away to prevent the tragedy from repeating.

“Really?” Nord, one hand on his wineglass, the other hooked over the back of his chair, legs crossed, watched Verak’s back.

Soon, Demps arrived.

At thirty, Demps was a sturdy young man with a thick beard. Like most in the Tsvord slum, he worked at the nearby steel mill. If he wanted to join Verak for dinner after work, he always had to shower first, or the slightly fastidious Verak would turn him away without mercy.

With three big men squeezed into the tiny room, it instantly felt even more cramped. Turning around was nearly impossible, but none of them complained. Because this little room, barely seven or eight square meters and costing a yearly rent of 2,400 copper crowns—almost two-fifths of Verak’s annual income—was already the best living environment the slums had to offer.

The place’s layout was simple. Entering the door, a long narrow table stood to the left, with two high stools beside it. To the right was a combination bed with a desk and wardrobe underneath. Directly ahead, by the window and taking up nearly half the room, was the area strictly blocked off with blackout cloth, serving as a rudimentary darkroom for developing photos.

Everything Verak owned—a source of envy and jealousy among other slum dwellers—could be taken in at a glance upon entering the door. It seemed he could see the whole of his life’s future right here.

Verak pulled his desk chair over as well, just enough for the three of them to sit.

Tonight’s dinner was rye pastry and cabbage soup. The price was average—six copper crowns for the three of them.

“Oh right, the newspaper.” As they were about to eat, Nord seemed to remember something, pulling a few folded newspapers from his coat pocket and handing them to Verak.

The newspaper was Verak’s only window to the outside world.

Since Nord started working as a waiter at a restaurant in Tsvord, he brought Verak whatever newspapers the customers left behind each day.

The slums did sell newspapers, but it was never as cost-effective as Nord bringing free ones. Besides, the slums only had the Tsvord Daily, while the city offered well-known papers like the Bresse Economic Times, Political Weekly, World News, and Western Times—their content was worlds apart.

Verak held the papers in his hands, but couldn’t focus on the words. Time was running out. Before the Thomas family arrived—while he still had a choice—he had to make a decision that would reshape the rest of his life.

Nord poured Demps a drink with a grin, and the three began their meal.

Nord glanced at Verak, who was staring at the paper. “Looking at your life, you almost make me want to rent my own room.”

Demps took big bites. “Isn’t the room across from Verak’s still empty? But can you afford that much rent?”

“If I keep working hard at the restaurant, I could make about six thousand copper crowns a year—if I’m frugal, that’s enough to rent a single room.” Nord calculated, trying to make his plan sound practical.

“You say that, but you’ll never save up,” Demps snorted dismissively.

He knew all too well how reckless Nord was with money. Saving even four hundred copper crowns was a fantasy for him, let alone two thousand four hundred.

“Well… I’ll think about it some more,” Nord said, hesitating for form’s sake before draining his glass, consoling himself. “An eight-person room isn’t so bad, just eight hundred a year. Sure, it’s a squeeze, but I eat, drink, and dress well enough.”

At that, Verak—who had been silent—let out a dry laugh and interjected, “The Economic Times published some figures. Last year, the average annual income in Bresse was 151 gold crowns, that’s 15,100 copper crowns. You don’t even make half the average, yet you call your life comfortable?”

“Hey, it’s not so bad in our slum. If you compare me to those rich people in the city, neither you nor I would measure up,” Nord retorted, embarrassed.

Verak froze at that.

“Actually, you’re one of the high earners around here. And yet you never give us a discount when we get our pictures taken…” Nord teased, grinning.

Before Verak could reply, Demps cut in, “Forget it. I barely take a photo a year. Not like you, always wanting new pictures. If Verak really gave you freebies, he’d be back in an eight-man room by next month…”

After dinner, Nord and Demps started drinking, chatting about the latest happenings in the slums, while Verak took his basin to the washroom.

The moment he stepped outside, the stench of smoke, alcohol, sweat, and vomit in the hallway hit him. The mixture was nauseating—Verak had always struggled to adapt to it, and now it was even harder to bear.

The feeling only intensified in the washroom, which was connected to the toilets. The smell of vomit and human waste was overwhelming—several times stronger than in the hallway, pushing the limits of human endurance.

He washed up, fighting the urge to retch, then hurried back to his room, where the now-tipsy Nord and Demps were loudly debating whose turn it was to pay for the six-copper dinner.

The noise in his ears, the stink clinging to him, the narrow, shabby room, a life that could be seen at a glance…

Having spent two months in the capital Laizen, Verak now found this life nearly unbearable—even if he lived in the best conditions the slums could offer and held one of its best jobs.

Silently, as they argued, he took out six copper crowns and settled the bill for the meal. Having considered fleeing the slums to avoid being found by the Thomas family, Verak now resolved to stay and wait for them to come for him.

It was the most dangerous choice, but it was the only one he could make if he wished to change the unchanging course of his life.