In the late hours of the night, a lone figure walked down the narrow road heading to the outskirts of the city. The night was cold, and the streets were empty; the streetlights flickered on and off with the only sound being the one produced by his swaying footsteps. Humming a sorrowful tune, the man's face was flushed. He'd pause as he brought the bottle of liquor to his mouth. Throwing away the empty bottle in disappointment, he silently cursed, "Shit. Oh well, I still have two more bottles at home."

He comforted himself as he was heading into a dark alley. As soon as he stepped into the alley, a strong but familiar scent hit his nose. Sniffing twice for confirmation, he looked ahead. Even though the alley was dark, vague shapes and outlines of objects could be made out. Not far from him, by the alley wall, was an outline of a person slumped on the ground. Continuing down the alley and minding his own business, a wet hand suddenly grabbed his ankle.

"Please, young man, help me." The voice was deep and old but also tired. He wanted to yank his foot away and continue walking. After all, this was not a strange scene in this part of the city, but he found himself unable to make a decision. His rational side was telling him to leave and forget about this, but his irrational side was telling him to help the old man. Plus, he was slightly curious about how the old man ended up in such a situation. Plus, if the old man was a threat, he would simply kill him on the spot, so what did he have to lose? Nothing.

Picking up the old man in his arms, he now looked relatively sober as if he was not drunk a few seconds ago. His apartment was just after the alley, so it didn't take him long to reach the old flat that seemed like it would crumble at any given moment. Making his way up the stairs, his nose crunched due to the strong smell of blood. Luckily for him, all the tenants were sleeping; otherwise, he would have a lot of explaining to do. Reaching the door of his apartment, he pushed the old door open with a little force, having no time to look for the key. Once inside, the apartment looked like a dreary relic from long ago, sagging under the weight of neglect. The wooden floorboards creaked with every step he took, sticky in places where spilled liquor had seeped into the grain. Faded, peeling wallpaper clung to the walls, discolored from grime and tobacco smoke. Empty bottles lay across the floor, showcasing his love for alcohol.

A single, tattered armchair slumped by the fireplace, its upholstery torn and stuffing protruding. The hearth, cluttered with cold ashes, seemed more like a repository for discarded cigar butts than a source of fire. A rickety table in the corner was covered with meals long forgotten, stained with spills and littered with a chaotic array of playing cards.

The air was thick with the scent of stale alcohol, smoke, and unwashed linens, a showcase to his disregard for tidiness, and the light was still on. Placing the old man on the armchair, he removed the old man's shirt. On the old man's belly was a wound unlike any he had seen before, and he had seen many wounds since he was part of the royal task force. The wound seemed to be inflicted by some sort of beast, but at the same time, it appeared as though he had been poured with acid. The way his wounds appeared, a huge chunk of his belly was gone, and the blood—his eyes widened at the realization the old man's blood was not red but purple. He stared at the wounds for a couple of seconds, his mind processing the scene before him.

[Purple blood just like them. I knew I should have left him to die,] the man thought. He ran into the kitchen to grab a bottle of alcohol and some kitchen cloths. Returning to the old man, he opened the bottle with his teeth before drinking the alcohol. Then he poured some on the kitchen cloth, and he started cleaning the wound. After a short while, he was done, having also dressed the wound. Now the old man was sleeping, and he stood looking at him. After a long moment of silence, a heavy sigh escaped his lips.

"You always have to play the hero, Josh," he reprimanded himself in a soft voice. Deciding to let the old man rest, Josh grabbed a half-empty bottle and sat down cross-legged on the cold floor and he started drinking.

...

Early in the morning, the windows, smeared with dirt, could only let a small amount of light peek into the apartment, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Josh's eyes slowly opened, revealing the scene in front of him. Sighing one more time, he stood up from where he was seated, leaving the now-empty bottle on the floor. He looked at the old man one last time before going to prepare hot water for a bath.

Josh sighed as he hauled the last heavy bucket of water from the stove to the large metal tub in the middle of the kitchen. "Finally," he muttered, wiping his brow. He set the bucket down with a clank, the warm water sloshing inside. The tub was nearly full now, steam rising gently from the water's surface. Josh tested it with his fingertips—it was warm, almost perfect. He couldn't help but smile a little, though he was weary from yesterday's events. He took a quick glance at the old man in the armchair before taking off his clothes: first his shirt, then his trousers, followed by his underclothes. The kitchen's wooden floor was cold against his bare feet, making him shiver as he stepped out of his shoes.

Josh eased into the tub, wincing a little as the water touched his skin. Soon he had adjusted to the hot water. Josh picked up the soap, rubbing it between his hands until it formed a thin lather, then scrubbed it over his arms and chest. He worked the soap into his skin.

As he washed, Josh's thoughts drifted to the past, back when he was still the commanding officer of the royal task force, a group of elite soldiers belonging to the queen. Josh was the youngest officer of his rank, and that did not make many people happy. His position was sought after by many, but Josh's achievements cemented the fact that he deserved his rank. But then on one of his missions, Josh's team stumbled into an unfamiliar location deep in enemy territory. Running away from their pursuers, Josh instructed his team to venture deeper into the unknown forest, but that one decision cost him everything.

"Wa-water," the old man's hoarse voice brought him out of his thoughts. Then realization struck him—he had been in the tub for way too long. The water was now cold. Silently cursing, he quickly got out and dried his wet body before putting on his clothes.

Josh helped the old man drink the water he had provided. He now observed the old man carefully. The old man was bald with a huge amount of grey beard. His deep wrinkles revealed his age, and he had a tattoo on his head. His eyes had a strange color unfamiliar to Josh; his skin was pale due to the loss of blood. The old man gave him an appreciative smile, making Josh feel even more conflicted. He opened his mouth, wanting to ask, but then he closed it in fear of the old man's answer, so he resorted to staring.

After a short while, the old man spoke, "Thank you, young man, you are such a kind soul." The old man paused and opened his eyes to look straight at him. "You blame yourself for something you did not do. You are not the cause of their deaths; your queen is." Hearing the old man, Josh's shock could not be contained. How did he know? Josh wanted to ask the old man where he got that classified information, but before he could ask, the old man was already sleeping...again. Sighing heavily, Josh took a few steps back until his back hit the wall, his chest rising up and down. He was sweating. Looking at his sweaty palms, he cursed, "Damnit, I just took a bath."

Deciding to leave the apartment and get some air and maybe some food, Josh left the old man asleep. Making his way down the stairs, his mind was still chaotic, so he did not notice when his neighbor greeted him with a sweet smile on her face. The young woman stared at Josh's back in disappointment, but then she smiled, locked her door, and ran after him.