Into the Roil

Sweat glued Neto's shirt to his back as he jogged home, the water-yolk digging into his shoulder like a blade. Thin beams of sunlight flickered through the canopy above, speckling the dirt path in shifting gold. Beyond the horizon, the sun crouched low, watching him with an unblinking eye.

He braced himself as the sea of bodies surged around Dhvari's main road. Navigating the slum required more than patience—it required force. Countless feet pounded the earth, kicking up a haze of fine dust that coated his skin and clung to his ragged shirt. With his free hand, Neto untied a strip of cloth from his pants and pressed it to his mouth. The rag was already stiff with grime, but it was better than breathing the slum's air unfiltered. Dust and sweat stung his eyes as he pushed forward, his body driven more by habit than strength.

Finally, he reached the edge of the crowd and slipped into a narrow alley. The sudden stillness caught him off guard. A cool breeze rolled over him, washing away the heat and grime. His knees buckled, and for the first time all day, the weight of the yolk seemed unbearable. His lips cracked with each breath, and his back screamed for relief. Just a few more steps, he told himself, eyes locked on the splintered stairs that led to his door.

The umbilical corridor connecting the alley to his home was barely a few feet away. Summoning the last of his strength, Neto trudged up the creaking steps. At the top, he leaned one end of the yolk against his door and fumbled for the latch. It swung open before his fingers even brushed it.

Neto stumbled inside, the stale air of the room greeting him like an old acquaintance. His pulse quickened. The door should've been locked.

"A'tcha, Neto. You made me wait for some time."

The familiar rasp stopped Neto in his tracks. His hands trembled as he steadied the yolk on the floorboards and glanced up. A man sat across the room at the old table, his figure sharp against the shadows. His almond-colored skin seemed to glow in the dim light, framed by streaks of white in his black hair. A neat, trimmed beard completed the look of a man who cared about appearances.

"Sir!? Ah… good to see you." Neto forced the words through dry lips. "Wait a moment—I need to boil some water before we start. Is it another knife wound?"

He turned toward the chest near the wall, pulling out two hand-carved cups and filling them with water. His fingers worked on autopilot, but his mind raced. How had Neeraj opened the door without breaking the lock?

"No rush." Neeraj's tone was casual, almost bored. "I'm not here for treatment this time."

Neto froze. The cups trembled in his hands, and he set them down before he spilled the water. Neeraj wasn't here for a wound? That could only mean one thing. Forcing himself to breathe evenly, Neto picked up the cups again and placed one in front of Neeraj, who gestured for him to sit.

Reluctantly, Neto sank into the chair across from him. The cool water was like a balm as it slid down his throat, but it did nothing to ease the tension coiled in his gut. Neeraj's piercing blue eyes locked onto his, unreadable but heavy with intent.

"The boss knows about this service you've been giving the people of Dhvari," Neeraj began, his words measured. "He's impressed. Unfortunately, that means he has a favor to ask of you."

Neto forced a chuckle from his lungs. "Is it really a favor if I can't refuse?"

Neeraj smiled, slow and deliberate, but there was no warmth in it. "You catch on quickly." He reached into his lap and drew out a small pouch, tossing it onto the table with a casual flick of his wrist. It landed with a dull thunk, and Neto's stomach sank.

Not coin.

The fabric of the pouch was rough against his fingers as he picked it up. It molded to the shape of his hand, light but ominous. A faint scent wafted up as he untied the string—damp earth mixed with something metallic. He peered inside to find a fine, dark brown powder.

"Tell me," Neeraj said, leaning back in his chair, "do you know what it is?"

Neto frowned, tilting the pouch closer to his nose. The smell was almost familiar, but he couldn't place it. "It's a similar color to Kho'lat, but ground thinner. Is it something to have with cold or boiled water? I don't think I've seen this before."

Neeraj's laugh rumbled through the room, loud and startling against the stillness. His teeth were impossibly white as he grinned at Neto. "Good boy! Haha! You do not need to know what this is. It's better that you don't."

Before Neto could blink, the pouch disappeared from the table, tucked back into Neeraj's lap as if it had never existed. The man's grin lingered for a moment longer before fading. "Let's move on."

Neto scowled, frustration bubbling beneath his exhaustion. "Why are you here, sir? What do you want?"

Neeraj's expression hardened, his good humor draining away. "Someone important to the boss has been found in poor condition. Tonight, they'll be brought to you for treatment."

Neto shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. "Look, I've had no medical training. My father was an apothecary, but he taught me nothing. If this person is important to your boss, you shouldn't bring them here."

"This has already been decided." Neeraj's voice dropped, sharp as a knife. "You're the only one the boss trusts. Tight lips, easy to find—you're perfect for the job." He paused, leaning forward. "Unless you'd prefer to run. I could help with that—but if you leave Dhvari, you can never come back."

Neto swallowed hard, bitterness rising in his throat. He wanted to argue, to demand why it had to be him—but the glint in Neeraj's blue eyes was enough to remind him of the consequences. And where would he go? Dhvari was his home. Its dust and chaos were in his blood. He clenched his jaw, forcing his anger down.

"As I thought," he muttered. "I don't have a choice. When are they coming?"

For a brief moment, disappointment flashed across Neeraj's face. Then it was gone. "Tonight," he said, standing. "A few hours, at most."

He adjusted his coat, casting one last look at Neto. "Be ready."