The newsboy dutifully handed Ivan the three newspapers. Ivan flipped through them quickly, the scent of fresh ink filling his nostrils, and nodded in satisfaction. He tucked the folded papers under his arm, making a mental note to read them in detail later.
"I just arrived from up north," Ivan said casually. "Anything interesting happening here lately?"
The newsboy, a thin lad with an alert look in his eyes, paused to think, glancing around as if to make sure no one was eavesdropping. "Well, sir, there's been a lot of talk among the gentlemen about a… serial killer."
"A serial killer?" Ivan raised an eyebrow, intrigued and surprised. The words conjured images straight out of a Sherlock Holmes novel.
"Yeah," the newsboy said, his voice dropping to a whisper as if telling a ghost story. "I heard he… he cuts his victims to pieces. Real brutal stuff."
Ivan clicked his tongue, a mix of curiosity and discomfort rippling through him. "Lovely. Just the kind of welcome I was hoping for," he muttered, half to himself. The idea of a deranged killer on the loose was unsettling enough, but his mind quickly jumped to another, darker possibility. 'Could this killer be hunting wizards?' He shivered slightly, imagining himself becoming a target.
"Any idea what he looks like?" he asked, masking his concern with a casual tone.
The newsboy shrugged. "Witnesses say he wears a cloak and a pointed hat, like one of those medieval types. But no one's ever gotten a good look at his face."
Ivan noted this odd description, thinking it sounded more like a character from a costume party than a ruthless killer. 'Wizards who fancy a bit of cosplay,' he mused, filing the information away. Better to keep an eye out for anyone eccentric enough to walk around in a pointed hat.
Glancing at his watch, Ivan realized it was nearly noon. He still had a long list of things to handle in this bustling city. With a thoughtful expression, he looked back at the newsboy.
"What's your name?" he asked, rubbing his chin.
"Charlie Hank, sir," the boy replied with a quick, bright smile.
"Charlie, do you usually sell papers here?"
"Yes, sir. I'm here every morning and afternoon at six," Charlie said, nodding earnestly. "If I'm not around, you can ask the owner of the grocery store next to the station. He usually knows where to find me."
Ivan gave a satisfied nod, noting the boy's resourcefulness. "Good to know, Charlie. I may be looking for you in the future."
After a few more questions, Ivan gave him a small wave and headed off, thinking that a well-informed newsboy like Charlie might prove useful down the line. After all, kids like him had their ears to the ground and picked up everything in the city's rumor mill.
Stepping out of the station, Ivan was instantly struck by the scale and energy of the city. St. Francis was everything he had heard and more; a dazzling display of wealth and modernity. The road stretched wide and open before him, broad enough to let eight Ford cars drive side by side. The asphalt was freshly paved, smooth and gleaming in the midday sun. Lining the avenue were rows of cork oaks, their southern charm adding a touch of greenery to the urban sprawl.
Looking upward, he took in the intricate façades of the buildings; a mix of light browns and off-whites, carved in fine detail, radiating a warm, golden hue under the sun. Above them towered the true marvels: massive skyscrapers rising like colossal monuments to human ambition. One building, shaped like a giant crayon, loomed over the street, its broad walls peppered with hundreds of windows that seemed ready to burst open with the energy of the people inside.
All around, these towering giants dominated the skyline, casting shadows over the city below. St. Francis was unlike anything Ivan had seen, a city that made even the thriving Bridgewick look small and outdated in comparison, as if it were a century behind. Despite his experience as a time traveler who had witnessed Moscow, Ivan had to remind himself… this was 1920. The contrast between eras and cultures was dizzying, a strange dissonance that made him feel like a country boy seeing the big city for the first time.
But that sense of disorientation only fueled his excitement. St. Francis felt alive, a pulsing heart of commerce, ambition, and stories waiting to be discovered.
Ivan began to make his way down the bustling street, marveling at the sea of people that filled the sidewalks. Men and women of all backgrounds brushed past him; white, brown, blacl; people of every shade, from pale to golden to dark, each person adding a layer of vibrancy to the city's tapestry. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of street food mingling with the sharp tang of car exhaust, and let himself be swept along by the crowd.
Eventually, he slipped into a cozy-looking café, seeking a quiet corner where he could regroup. The place had a warm, inviting ambiance, with the scent of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air. He ordered a cup, savoring the rich aroma as he settled into his seat.
With a steaming mug in hand, Ivan pulled out his newspapers, flipping through the job openings and rental ads. He had a plan to build a life here, to find work and a place to stay, all while navigating the hidden dangers lurking beneath the city's gleaming surface.
For now, though, he let himself enjoy this moment; a hot coffee in a bustling city, the hum of life all around, and the faint melody of a tune from his past life playing softly in his mind.
At exactly 3 p.m., Ivan and his new landlord shook hands, sealing the deal on a cozy, single-bedroom apartment in the bustling heart of the city. The rent was affordable, just 4 dollars a month, an ideal price for someone trying to find his footing in a new place.
Dressed in a sharp, well-fitted outfit he'd managed to pick up just for the occasion, Ivan felt more confident. The landlord's demeanor shifted immediately when Ivan arrived looking polished and respectable, and the whole rental negotiation turned out to be remarkably smooth. The only condition the landlord imposed was a gentle reminder: "Just make sure to clean the place at least once a month."
After signing the contract, Ivan tucked the papers into a new briefcase he'd treated himself to as a small celebration. The apartment key slipped neatly into his wallet. Space in the briefcase was limited, he wanted to carry only what he truly needed, leaving the rest behind.
Ivan had paid three months' rent upfront, which left him with 1,734 dollars and some spare change. He felt a wave of relief wash over him as he unlocked the door to his new sanctuary. The apartment was modest but comfortable, a one-bedroom space with a small living room, a kitchen, and a compact bathroom. It was simple, but it would be home, at least for now.
The living room had a well-worn but sturdy sofa, a coffee table, and a set of dark wooden tables and chairs adorned with intricate patterns, reflecting the popular Art Deco style of the time. The bedroom held a bed with a firm mattress. It wasn't exactly soft, but thankfully, there were no unpleasant smells or stains. Ivan appreciated the small victories.
After a brief rest, he began inspecting the apartment's furnishings, making mental notes of what he would need. He found some papers on the bedroom table and jotted down a list of essentials he'd need to buy: cleaning supplies, food, perhaps some new bedding. List in hand, he slipped it into his pocket and returned to his primary task, writing his resume. Finding a job was his top priority now.
Yet, as Ivan sat there, pouring his efforts into crafting the perfect resume, he couldn't help but feel a hint of irony. Here he was, a traveler from the 21st century, once a top student in the Civil Engineering Department at University. A powerful wizard in his circle, a sworn enemy of the infamous Bridgewick gang, and a loyal customer of Freddy's pasta shop, yet now, he was struggling to even get a foot in the door.
Despite his qualifications and ambitions, Ivan's job hunt proved more challenging than he'd anticipated.
…
Determined to make a professional impression, Ivan changed out of his comfortable brown windbreaker and invested in a formal black suit. By 5:30 p.m., he found himself in the office of a small business, his resume in hand, ready to make his case.
The boss, a middle-aged man with a neat suit and a cigar clamped between his teeth, scanned Ivan's resume briefly before tossing it aside with a disdainful smirk.
"I'm sorry," the man said, blowing a cloud of cigar smoke directly into Ivan's face, "You meet all the qualifications, no doubt."
He paused, eyeing Ivan up and down with barely concealed contempt. "But I'm not interested in hiring someone of your… background. Especially a Russian."
The words hung in the air, heavy with prejudice. Ivan felt his face darken, anger simmering just beneath the surface. Slowly, he rose from his seat, taking in the man's smug expression, the dismissive tilt of his head.
Ivan reached over and picked up the coffee pot from the table. "You know, sir," he said, his voice dangerously calm, "you remind me of this pot of coffee."
The boss looked at him, clearly confused. "What are you talking about?"
Without another word, Ivan tipped the coffee pot, letting the hot liquid spill onto the boss's pristine silk suit. The man yelped in shock, the scalding heat making him jump to his feet as he flailed in pain. The commotion drew the attention of security and staff outside, who rushed in, alarmed.
When they arrived, they found Ivan standing calmly, a revolver in hand. He pressed it lightly against the forehead of one of the security guards.
"Your boss just had a little accident with his coffee," Ivan said with a mocking smile. "Perhaps you could help him clean up? He's quite… clumsy."
The guard gulped, nodded awkwardly, and signaled for everyone to back off. No one dared speak.
With a final glance around the room, Ivan holstered his revolver, adjusted his suit, and strolled out of the office, leaving stunned silence in his wake.