In a secluded alley, far from the restless crowd, the beggar strips off his ragged clothes. A man in his early thirties—lean, dark-haired. Sweat clings to his skin, dampening the strands of hair plastered against his forehead. Yet his breath remains steady.

  With practiced ease, he turns out his pockets. The weight that once rested there—coins and plentiful bread—is nearly gone.

  “That bastard,” he mutters, wincing as he turns the pouch inside out. “Should’ve left halfway. No idea he’d show up.”

  Still, not entirely lost. Thirty coins and a few crumbs of bread. He devours the food in a few hurried bites. There’s no time to waste.

  These aren’t his main objectives. He walks further into the alleyway.

  “Back again, kid?” The peddler, Pavlov, stands near his trolley, a jumble of dark vials and pungent herbs swirling around them. The air is thick with the bitter smell of something too potent for most.

  “Is he still there?”

  “Yeah. Sleeping like a baby.”

  “Good.” The beggar glances around before moving toward the pile of discarded boxes. In the shadows, a young man, well-dressed but snoring in a drunken stupor, lies sprawled on the ground. The beggar strips him of his fine clothes and slides them on.

  “What number is he?”

  “Somewhere in the hundredth spot.” The beggar tightens the belt, noting the odd fit. “Strange for someone of his class.”

  “You found him in a back alley, squandering coins, cornered by thugs,” the peddler muses, watching the beggar as he puts on one boot. “Could be the type even his own family’d toss out.”

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  “He was already a drunkard when I found him,” the beggar puts on the other boot. “Nearly puked and choked on his own vomit. Had to knock him out. Would’ve ruined the fine clothes he’s wearing.”

  “So, you didn’t save him out of pity, but for the clothes?”

  The beggar falls silent for a moment. “That’s not important. I came here to get something.”

  He stops, counting the coins again in his hand.

  “Well, Pav, I don’t have much on me now. Think we can settle on half a bottle? Or whatever leftover you got.”

  Without hesitation, Pavlov plucks two full bottles of the dark liquid from his trolley. “Business has been rough. But kid, you’re a regular. I reckon you’re the only customer today.”

  “Your remedy’s always bitter,” the beggar says with a slight grimace. “People today want something sweet, even if it doesn’t work. They never appreciate the real stuff.”

  “Thirty years since I walked out of that royal academy—what was it called again? Thaumathology?” Pavlov lets out a dry laugh. “And you, kid, you’re the only one still sticking with my formulations. But damn, you haven’t changed a bit since we met. Look at me now—an old man, scraping for coins. Probably gonna keel over in some alley one day, won’t even realise I’m gone!”

  The beggar says nothing. And thus Pavlov continues.

  “Suckers like me just have to put up with this. But the rich? They buy their youth back. Thousands of coins for one year back—elixirs stamped with the gods' approval. Stupid, isn’t it? Mortals obsessed with escaping mortality.”

  “I age too, Pav. I’ll die, just slower—if I’m lucky. Some of my kind aren’t so fortunate.”

  “That change thirty years ago boiled down my elixir into energy tonics for the restless and desperate.” Pavlov doesn’t seem to hear him.

  “But you never stopped trying, Pav.”

  Pavlov clicks his tongue. “Your eyes are sticking out again. That’s not gonna help you.”

  He crouches down, unlocks a hidden compartment, and pulls out two vials of glistening purple liquid.

  “I’ve only got thirty coins left, Pav.” The beggar hesitates. “Grigory took everything else.”

  Pavlov’s eyes widened. “Grigory? You should count yourself lucky you’re still in one piece.” He presses the vials into the beggar’s hands. “Take them. On me. You’ll need them.”

  The beggar looks down at the glass, then back at Pavlov. “I don’t know how I can thank you enough.”

  “Kid, just get the job,” Pavlov says, shrugging. “It’ll cover you. Save you from all that running. But you’ve got the skills for the darker side of town. Look at that queue—people waiting for a single job, and only one of them will get it. Times like these, the real money’s in the shadows.”

  The beggar speaks slowly, looking into Pavlov’s eyes. “I would’ve taken that route in a heartbeat… but when I think back to the one who guided me, it turns my stomach.”

  “You sure know how to string some fine sentences, kid.”

  The beggar shrugs. “Never saw his face. Probably some old geezer, older than you.”

  Pavlov grunts, then a dry chuckle escapes his lips. “Alright, so now I’m a geezer too for all my generosity, huh?”

  The beggar smirks mischievously. “Thirty coins for you then, old man. We call it even.”