Stepping outside the alleyway, Arthur sighed deeply, his breath turning to mist in the frigid night air. "Time to find a new job," he muttered, feeling the sharp bite of the cold against his face.
His hands were numb, his fingers stiff from gripping the bicycle handles as he pedaled down the street. The freezing wind whipped against him, but he pushed through, his mind already turning to his next move.
The city around him was alive despite the late hour. Neon signs flickered in the darkness, casting eerie glows on the wet streets. Laughter and chatter echoed from nearby bars and restaurants, as groups of friends passed the night without a care in the world. The contrast to his own life couldn't have been more stark.
Arthur pedaled toward a small pizza shop he'd spotted earlier, the words "Workers Needed" still displayed in the window. He parked his bicycle outside and entered, shaking off the cold as the warmth of the shop enveloped him.
"Excuse me, sir," Arthur said to the man behind the counter, "are you by any chance still looking for workers?"
The man gave Arthur a once-over, his eyes scanning the young man from head to toe. After a brief, judgmental pause, he shook his head. "No, we're not looking anymore," he replied curtly.
Arthur knew why. He wasn't fooled by the excuse. It wasn't his lack of qualifications that the man saw—it was the cold, soaked young man standing before him in ragged clothes. But Arthur didn't back down. His tone remained calm, steady. "Don't get fooled by my young age. I have experience in many things, and if you give me a chance, I'll prove it to you."
The man snorted, waving him off dismissively. "No, young man. I don't have a job here for you. Go find it somewhere else." His tone was final, as he shooed Arthur toward the door.
Arthur turned without another word, stepping back into the cold and mounting his bicycle once again. The rejection didn't surprise him. It was just one more in a long list of doors slammed in his face. He pedaled on, the cold wind slicing through his jacket as he made his way down the main street.
He stopped at an old antique shop, its windows dimly lit by a flickering lantern. Curious, he stepped inside. The shop was quiet, filled with dusty shelves lined with trinkets and oddities. Arthur approached the counter, where an old man sat, his wrinkled hands gently polishing a small wooden figurine.
"Are you looking for workers?" Arthur asked, his voice steady but hopeful.
The old man glanced at him briefly, his eyes twinkling with a quiet wisdom. "No, we're not, young man," he replied with a small smile. "But aren't you cold? Why don't you sit with this old man for a while, drink some tea, and warm yourself up before heading out again?"
Arthur studied the old man for a second, sensing no immediate threat. It was a strange offer, but the warmth was tempting, and his body ached from the cold. "Okay. Thank you for the offer," he replied after a pause.
The old man nodded, slowly rising from his chair and shuffling toward the back of the shop where a small kettle was steaming. Arthur took the opportunity to look around. The shop, though old, was surprisingly tidy. Each item seemed meticulously placed, as if the old man took great care in maintaining the space. Everything felt too perfect for an antique store, too clean.
After a few moments, the old man returned with two cups of tea, placing one in front of Arthur with a smile. "Here you go, young man," he said warmly. "Drink up. It'll warm you from the inside."
Arthur looked at the cup, his eyes narrowing slightly. Something didn't sit right. His instincts, honed from years of surviving harsh realities, screamed at him to be cautious. He raised the cup to his lips but then paused, turning his gaze to the old man.
"Here, old man," Arthur said, his voice calm and controlled. "Take a sip."
The old man raised an eyebrow, surprised by the request. "I have my own cup, young man," he chuckled, lifting the second cup to show it.
Arthur didn't smile. His eyes remained fixed on the old man. "I know," he replied, his tone still even, "but in my culture, the person serving food must always taste it before the guest eats."
The old man's face faltered for a brief second, a flicker of something dark crossing his expression. He quickly masked it with a laugh. "In my culture, it's impolite to eat a guest's food," he replied, his smile returning. But there was something off in the way he spoke now, something forced.
"Really? That's interesting," Arthur said, still watching him closely. He set the cup back down on the table. "Well, I guess it's time for me to leave. Thanks for the hospitality. I almost fainted from its generosity." There was a cold edge to his words, a sharpness that hadn't been there before.
The old man's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of shock passing over his face. "How… did you know?" he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper.
Arthur smirked, his eyes cold. "Oh? So, you're admitting you were trying to put me to sleep using that herb?" he said, leaning back in his chair.
The old man stiffened, realizing the jig was up. "How did you know?" he repeated, his voice now tense.
Arthur shrugged, his tone casual. "That's not really your concern, is it? What should concern you is whether or not I rat you out for it."
The old man's hands twitched, his expression hardening. Slowly, he rose from his chair, his movements deliberate. "Yes… that is my concern. What do you want?"
Arthur remained still, his gaze unwavering as the old man approached. "Well," Arthur began, his voice calm, "I don't like blackmailing people. But I also don't like being drugged." His eyes gleamed with cold amusement. "I guess you could say I want the money in your bank account."
In an instant, the old man lunged at Arthur, trying to restrain him with surprising speed for someone of his age. But Arthur was faster. He sidestepped the attack effortlessly, shaking his head. "Really, old man?" he said with a smirk. "You can barely move, and you think you can restrain me?"
The old man stumbled, tripping over a loose floorboard. His head struck the wall with a dull thud, leaving him dizzy and disoriented.
Arthur walked over to the fallen tea cup and grabbed it with deliberate slowness. He crouched down beside the old man, who was still groaning in pain. "Let me give you a taste of your own medicine," Arthur said coldly, prying the old man's mouth open despite his weak resistance. He poured the contents of the tea cup down his throat, watching as the old man sputtered.
Arthur stood up, brushing the dust from his clothes as the old man slumped to the floor, slowly succumbing to the very herb he had tried to use on Arthur. "Enjoy your nap," Arthur muttered.