21 years ago.

My mother always says:

 "Good things aren't for wasting-keep 'em close." Still, I don't get why l can't take the nice presents the neighbors give us.

Dad's the same. He tells me and my brothers, "It"ll be bad for the Zhikretsu 11 to take stuff from regular folks." Then why do the nice people keep handing us the prettiest things? We have money, sure, but some of those gifts are hand-made and special.

At first I said "no." Then an old lady gave me the prettiest Khaftenya I'd ever seen, and I just had to take it. Now I grab a little thing every now and then and hide them in a secret place in my play chambers so nobody finds them.

PRESENT.

KHITHANAH. 

Apparently, wrapping your head around the thought of doing something is way easier than actually doing it, but here I am, back in this dreadful city, and the only thing I can think of is burning it to the ground. Lighting it up in flames, turning it to ashes, hoping the sound of their screams and the tearing of skin would burn with it. The scars skakeria City left run deeper than any flesh wound I've ever known-each one a brutal reminder of the blood-soaked sheets, the shattered promises, the faces that turned to ash the moment I turned my back. The memories claw at my throat like jagged nails, making it hard to breathe. Anger and betrayal crawl up my spine like a living thing, but I refuse to let it chain me. I won't be a prisoner of this city's cruelty. 

"Name,' the immigration officer drones, her voice flat, bringing me back to reality. She looks like she'd rather be anywhere else than stuck behind that glass booth, her eyes glazed over with boredom. For a moment, I wonder if she's just as trapped as I am-or maybe she's the lucky one, oblivious to the horrors lurking outside these sterile walls.

 "Khithanah Zemorah," I reply automatically, the name slipping out before I can stop it. A flicker of panic flashes through me-had I been stupid not to change my name? What if she recognizes it? What if she remembers?

"Origin?" she asks, eyes gesturing to the passport, then back to me, a hint of curiosity flickering in her gaze. Relief washes over me like a cool breeze. I hadn't been caught. 

"I was born here." Her pupils widen just a fraction, a spark of curiosity breaking through the monotony, and for a moment, I feel like I'm a puzzle she's trying to solve. 

"So you're returning home then?" she probes, a thin smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, her eyes lingering on mine. 

"Yeah. I am." The words taste bitter on my tongue. Home. Is that what this place is? I watch as she stamps my documents, slides them back across the counter, and offers a practiced, warm "Welcome back." The words feel empty, mocking almost, like a cruel joke. 

I haul my battered satchel to the travelers inn-a sleek, stone building that reeks of class and prestige, a stark contrast to the grimy streets outside. I had expected old and shabby, but this place is lavishly decorated, a sanctuary for the city's elite. Who am I to complain? Maybe this is exactly where I need to be-where no one expects me.

After dropping my things in a spacious room, I head for the main diner, drawn by the clatter of plates and the hum of conversation, the scent of food and desperation hanging in the air. I order a simple stew, letting the hot broth chase the chill from my bones, but it does little to warm the coldness inside me.

 The bartender-tall, lanky, with a scar slicing from his left eyebrow to his cheek-leans in, his smile easy, his eyes cr crling at the corners. "You look like you've walked through a storm," he says, wiping a glass with a rag, his gaze lingering on mine. I chuckle, the sound rough, like gravel in my throat. 

"Just passing through. What's the story behind this place? I don't recall seeing it when I was...here before." My voice is steady, but my heart is racing, waiting for him to see through me. 

He eyes me, weighing something, then launches into a tale about the inn's origins, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The owner's Chief Odbwresah. He's a legend around these parts-young, unmarried, barely in his thirties. Women chase after him, and men try to be like him. He built this inn from scratch, turned it into a haven for travelers. Now he's the kind of man people whisper about in reverence."

I repeat the name slowly, feeling the syllables roll off my tongue like a promise. "Chief Odbwresah." He feels important-a key, maybe, for the mission that brought me here. A shiver runs down my spine as I ponder this, the atmosphere shifting around me like the calm before a storm. 

The clatter of dishes softens, murmurs dim, and every worker straightens, eyes flicking to the doorway. The bartender's smile freezes, his hand pausing mid-wipe. I turn, following the collective gaze, and my heart skips beats I see him-tall, broad-shouldered, commanding without a word, a presence that draws me in like a moth to flame. He moves with quiet confidence, thickening the air, his eyes scanning the room like a predator on the hunt. Patrons part like a tide, their voices barely above a whisper. 

The bartender breathes, "Chief." I wait, heart thumping, until the room hushes, the silence deafening. Then, drawn by an invisible thread, I let my eyes drift to the man they call perfection. His green eyes lock onto mine-unexpected, striking, impossibly beautiful, filled with a quiet intensity that makes my breath catch. My curiosity spikes. The rumors might be true after all.