On a dimly lit street in the city of Wanderlust, one building immediately draws your attention - a beacon of neon lights and life. This is *Spectrum Oasis,* a bar that perfectly mirrors its name. At first glance, it resembles a kaleidoscope, brimming with vibrant colors, laughter, eclectic decor, mismatched chairs, and graffiti-covered walls. Yet, it is the people who are most mismatched of all.
Among them is Dorian Freeman, a bartender with a passion for photography.
Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Dorian can tell his story best.
---
Dorian's POV:
In this city, Wanderlust, people seem like mere caricatures of humanity. They are shallow, one-dimensional - obsessed with either joy or sorrow, good or evil, with nothing in between. Some seek conflict endlessly, though I doubt they even understand why.
Here, the concept of duality doesn't exist. A coin has only one side, and it's hollow at that. It's as if God couldn't be bothered to breathe souls into these people, crafting instead a collection of monotonous personas. Finding someone worth calling a friend in such a world is nearly impossible.
I'm completely alone. Sure, I encounter a hundred people a day, preparing drinks with ridiculous names, but no one really *sees* me.
Once, I had parents - or rather, I still have one. My father, Marcus, remains a shadow of the man he once was, drowning in guilt and alcohol after my mother, Vivienne died. I fear I'm destined to follow his path... though I try not to think about it.
Where is Marcus now?
Probably somewhere in the city, lost in an ocean of vodka, detached from reality. He blames himself for her death, just as I blame him.
At 21, most people are just starting their lives. They chase freedom, build dreams, and forge their futures. Me? I've been searching for freedom my whole life, but I've never truly felt it. They say if you run against the wind, you're brave, and if you walk through the rain at night, you're free. I've done both - and felt nothing.
I still couldn't feel it!
Damn it!
Yes! Not even for a moment have I felt this long-awaited, wonderful word: "freedom."
Something binds me. Something unseen holds me back. Sometimes it feels like my thoughts aren't even my own, as if I'm a puppet on invisible strings. no matter what I do. It feels like I've been someone else, and I'll never be free...fre...error%##TTR002BFD7E634RCXB67RBR C09623NCX934B834C3439R834R3BCX949R3R03-34B384349349834V384RX834R23RRNX28R3248R39NXC94N:
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---
- *BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!*
My alarm clock shatters the silence, jerking me awake at its usual 8 a.m.
The sound crawls under my skin, a relentless reminder of another day spent at the bar instead of at university. I have to deal with noisy, rude customers, each more aggravating than the last.
However, among them, there's one who stands out.
Gabriel Martinez, 28, is known for his striking presence, fearless nature, and unshakable courage. A police officer by profession, he still finds time to visit bars occasionally.
Last year, he rescued hostages without hesitation. He didn't flinch for a second. He disarmed criminals and heroically freed the captives. It was as if Martinez had arrived in the city, like dawn painting the sky, lighting up the pale, frightened town like a beacon.
Everyone says a boy is born a hero, a main character - so many epithets to describe Gabriel. I often think about him, wondering if I've fallen in love with him. (Just kidding.) The question that occasionally pops into my head, but quickly disappears, is that he is one of the unique ones, with a fate different from the rest. His father was a hero too. The city lost him two years ago. Now, everyone looks at his son with hope.
Today is Friday, so tomorrow I'll have time to rest and take more pictures. I have this camera from my mother. Sometimes I wonder how she knew I'd be interested in photography.
But what does it matter? I have a deep spiritual connection with my mother. Perhaps she foresaw my thoughts and future adventures. A few years after her death, I found a box in the basement of the house. Inside it was a small note.
Four years ago:
"She's dead! Do you understand? Your mother is dead! It's time for you to grow up and stop reminding yourself of her every day."
"I wish you didn't love alcohol more than my mother…"
"Dorian Freeman, watch your words."
"It's your fault. It's your fault, Father! You're responsible for her death, too!"
...
Marcus paused for a moment, standing frozen and seemingly diminished before his son. Dorian was holding his mother's gift, clutching it tightly, saying the most painful words to him. In truth, Marcus was troubled by these thoughts too and blamed himself.
"You think I don't know?"
Marcus barely managed to get the words out.
"You think I don't see how my own son looks at me every day with disgust?!"
He placed his trembling, red hand to his heart and collapsed to his knees... Dorian was about to help him, but quickly changed his mind.
"At night, I have terrible nightmares. Vivi comes in my dreams, and that day - the cursed rainy day, the sudden collision with something…"
Dorian looked at his father, tears in his eyes. He hugged the red box and the little letter he had just found tightly.
"Do you think nightmares visit me only at night? No, they're with me during the day too. They never leave me. If only this would comfort me…"
Marcus stood up, leaning on his knee, reaching for the bottle of vodka.
Dorian's face fell in an instant. Every nerve in his body tensed. His voice trembled, but he growled:
"That's exactly why you killed my mother."
Marcus could no longer bear the shame and instinctively slapped boy in the face. Then he rubbed his face harder and left the house.
At 17, Dorian was left alone. For the next few years, Marcus would appear once or twice, asking for money, but Dorian refused to give him a cent. He knew Marcus would spend it on alcohol.
Dorian read the letter in his hand for the tenth time, and each time, it brought the same feeling:
"My Dorian, my dear and only son. Soon we'll celebrate your birthday. This is a gift from me. capture on film what you feel is worth capturing. I love you. - Mom."
---
Present Day:
The love of photography is a fascinating thing. Moments frozen in time - through the lens, one discovers the exquisite art of capturing beauty, often overlooked by the human eye. This is the dance of lights, shadows, and colors, transforming ordinary scenes into extraordinary fairy tales.
Photography is, at its core, poetic expression—a silent conversation between the artist and the world, allowing us to preserve cherished memories and discover beauty in the mundane world.
-------
"Pour me a Negroni."
"Right now."
Dorian prepared the drink instantly. He had been working here for over two years and could make them with his eyes closed.
"Dorian, right?"
The young man with blonde hair and green eyes extended his hand as Dorian handed him the glass, offering a casual smile.
"Don't be shy. I just asked your name."
"Yes, that's my name, as you can see." Dorian glanced at his midnight-colored shirt, which clearly displayed "Dorian."
In Wanderlust, you don't need to ask anyone's name if you're smart—not because it's a dirty job, but because everyone already knows everyone else's name. In this city, no one is a stranger. No one is someone you want to escape from or escape reality with. Everyone is part of the crowd.
Dorian often wonders: Do I have problems? Am I the only one with this strange feeling of loneliness?
------
"Pour me another one!"
The young man had finished his first drink and was eager for a second. Dorian knew him too. He'd heard the rumors—Victor was rich, constantly boasting about his father's wealth, new cars, and how the world belonged to him.
"Please..."
"Dorian, tell me, are you free tonight?"
He moved closer, his body leaning in, invading personal space.
"What are you saying?"
"You know exactly what I mean! You don't want to mess with me."
"In general, interfering in other people's business seems to be your family's hobby, doesn't it, Victor?"
Victor pulled back with a disdainful smile.
"You know my first name, you probably know my last name too. Hahh... I bet you got expelled from university and now you work here for a few cents, playing the role of a Untouchable. Here's the deal: when you finish your shift, I'll be waiting outside. Name your price... or whatever you want."
Dorian couldn't take any more of the insult. He grabbed Victor by the collar, first yanking him aggressively toward him, then shoving him back with all his strength. Victor lost his balance and toppled off his chair.
In an instant, the club's security appeared:
"Hey! What's going on here? Dorian?"
"Nothing, nothing... Just a typical arrogant drunk trying to hanging out with me."
Victor stood up, straightened his expensive clothes, adjusted his even pricier watch, and gave Dorian a cold, emotionless look—as if to say he wouldn't let someone like him get under his skin.
"Mr. Victor!"
"Sir, is everything okay?"
His bodyguards appeared immediately.
"Calm down. The poor bartender tried to steal my watch, and when I confronted him, he slapped me around in a fit of rage because I anticipated it."
"Do you want us to take care of him?"
"He's lying!"
Dorian's voice was strained...
"No, no need for any unnecessary violence. I think we've already settled this, right, Dorian?"
Victor didn't drop his ironic smile.
He wasn't the first to offer Dorian a night of entertainment in exchange for money. After all, Dorian owned such exquisite beauty. His shirt sleeves were often rolled up, and today he had even added a simple leather bracelet and a new pair of Chelsea boots—money he'd saved up for months.
Almost all of his salary went to paying off his father's debt. Marcus had put their house up for collateral, and some of the money had been spent on alcohol, some lost in gambling, some stolen, and the rest... well, no one really knew where it went.
Marcus had been an alcoholic even before the accident, though not to this extent. Just before it happened, he'd seemed determined to get clean. He swears he didn't touch a drop that night, but no one believes him. His memory's already failing him.
Dorian resembled his father only in the color of his hair. Dark brown, slightly wavy, just like Marcus's. But his eyes—those eyes, the same shade of brown as his deceased mother's—held a depth, an inexpressible emotion that made them unforgettable.
His skin, soft and smooth like a gentle morning breeze.
If I had to describe his physique in one word, it would be "harmony."
His fingers—graceful and sculpted—moved with an elegance that seemed natural, effortless. The boy carried the scent of vanilla and lavender, an aroma that lingered long after he left the room, leaving an indelible trace in the air.
Dorian was the embodiment of his late mother's legacy. This was evident not only in the color of his eyes but in the emotions he carried—emotions that could never be put into words. Altogether, these qualities created a portrait of a young man whose very being was distinctive, enigmatic, and mysterious.
-----
I'll have to stay at work until midnight today because the guy on the second shift had something come up and couldn't make it on time. Anyway, today's the day when I really want to leave on time and take my mind off Victor. I barely restrained myself from snapping earlier.
Dorian, filled with anger and disappointment, continued his duties. At exactly 12 o'clock, he handed over the counter to Sonic and headed for the exit. He hoped that, as he had so brazenly promised, Victor wouldn't be there... But, of course, there he was, sitting at the entrance. The atmosphere around him was thick with arrogance. Dorian approached, his expression initially neutral.
Victor, confident in his own power, laughed and spoke:
"I'm sure no one will mind some extra cash."
Dorian remained calm and replied, "I've made it clear... I'm not interested in what you're offering me. Money can't buy everything."
Victor didn't stop. His gaze grew oppressive, and he gripped Dorian's arm tightly, trying to assert his dominance.
"You're just a bartender in this dirty place. One night with me could change your life for the better. And if you think I'll take no for an answer, you're wrong. I love challenges."
"I won't take your money or your dirty company's money. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other things to do."
Dorian turned his back to leave, but Victor called out:
"Your father took it instead, didn't he?"
The words hit like a slap. Dorian stopped, anger rising, but he didn't turn around. He didn't want to cause any more trouble. After all, nothing mattered but the green paper.
-----
After a tiring day, Dorian finally reached home. His dwelling was a reflection of balance—comfort mingled with simplicity. A small courtyard greeted him, adorned with potted plants that gave a sense of life and calm.
Inside, the living room was a quiet refuge. Opposite the TV, where Dorian often sought solace during peaceful evenings, a shelf displayed family photos—fragments of happier times before the tragedy struck.
The ever-present aroma of home-cooked meals lingered in the air, a reminder of Dorian's efforts to continue the traditions his late mother had established.
The small dining table, set for one, hinted at the loneliness that had been Dorian's companion for the past four years.
In his bedroom, a handmade blanket lay neatly on the bed—an enduring symbol of warmth and comfort. On the table, books, photo albums, and films were scattered, reflecting his creative aspirations.
The house, though modest, was richly decorated with memories. Every corner held a story of love, loss, and courage.
Dorian was exhausted that night, and whether or not he had eaten, he lay down on his bed and drifted off to sleep.
-----
Eiji's POV :
"He is so beautiful... even in his sleep."
Beauty—created by me, as a small part of the main character's life, a tiny relic necessary for the past history. But I think Dorian is more than just a secondary character. He deserves to have dreams and beautiful images, both in his sleep and in reality.
No matter how much I want to change his world—add or subtract something—it's impossible. Or at least, not right now. The fate of the game is in a precarious state. Every day, I have to eliminate new bugs that appear instantly. We had minor coding issues before, but never like this—never so frequent and obvious. I've been trying for months to get the game ready for release, but the company is threatening to cut off funding, which would lead to the complete deletion of this unique program. And deleting it would mean the permanent erasure of every character within it.
Fortunately, a few days ago, I completed a unique code and device—a means to transport myself into their world.
To put it briefly, a lot of chaos lies ahead.
.