#belobog

"Hold your breath. One, two— there you go. That's a brave one."

It was pitiful how in such a grim clinic, children were forced to end up here due to illness. This "Underworld" was more so "underground" with how its people had mostly accepted the idea that they'd never see a clear sky ever again. This land, though still part of the planet, was almost shunned. Consequently, when there were illnesses and contagions spreading about, it took a large toll, and the clinic you worked in wasn't enough for all the patients. Some had to be left behind. Some had to be left to die.

You didn't want to think about those you didn't attend. You knew there was only so much that could be done. Only so much that you could do with your efforts and time to help cure these people when they were sick. You had learned it wasn't only adults who would turn themselves in to the clinic. You became accustomed to the tears of children too. Everyone came by the clinic. What an awful thing, you thought to yourself, to be forced to sit under a gray ceiling, not knowing when you'll get out of all these wires.

You'd dealt with patients that had a heart of gold and patients that were more bitter than the winter cold that had plagued Belobog for thousands of years. Being an assistant to the dearly loved doctor of the clinic meant you'd have to get used to all sorts of people in all sorts of moods. And for a while, you came to enjoy the smiles of those you cured. You also came to feel guilt over those that were too late to be helped. Those, especially, you never forgot. But there was one fellow who never failed to come by. You'd seen him before— well, of course you had, he was always somewhere with that sense of mischief plastered all over him— and he seemed to like you. Sampo, that was the fellow. Some said he was to be avoided. Some said he was charming. Some said the charm was to be avoided. But regardless of the matter, you saw no harm in his visits. People come and go in this clinic all the time, what's one more? And seeing someone well was doing good to you, considering all you'd seen the past few weeks was only a plethora of patients at their wits' end and bodies rotting with disease. Seeing someone well, someone healthy and not needing medical attention brought a smile to you.

You needed normality. Something stable to grip. Natasha noticed it. You were gifted in aiding patients, and you were certainly someone she saw potential in for eventual careers if you were, by miraculous grace, brought upon recommendation to the world above, but you were also rather.. young. Not a child, but, you weren't used to this much work. She could tell. You might've been not that much younger than her, but she knew well enough that you had yet to become fully accustomed to this constant in-and-out routine when it came to work. You were usually one of the last assistants to leave, and while your dedication certainly was.. admirable, it was also a bit concerning.

Progressively, she could take note that your workload was taking a toll. Your smiles were a little strained. So she suggested you have a few days off. With the Trailblazer around, perhaps she could ask them to run some errands on your behalf so that you could breathe. That moment of rest was meant to begin tomorrow. You had argued that you could withstand a bit more, but the doctor did not budge, and she was the one who roped you into this job, so you supposed you'd have to assent this once.

The patient you were tending to now—a girl, she had to be no more than twelve—was uncharacteristically unwell. She didn't seem as though she was in a rapid, decadent state, but it was more so that she didn't ever seem to improve. She'd been occupying the clinic for a couple of days now, and you were sure her parents—if they were still around—must've been fretting over her wellbeing in her absence. You took a look at the syringe in your fingers, a clear yet viscous liquid stuck to the tip of the needle. You grimaced. Such things couldn't be pleasant for this child.

You placed the syringe on a small, blue cloth placed and folded within a gray tray, then adjusting the curtains beside the bed the patient had been resting on. Light dimmed out as the curtains were closed, only a small gap left open to not leave the girl in total darkness. You approached the sink on the far opposite end of the clinic, removing your gloves and rinsing your hands in tap water, washing them off with some soap. "Signing off for the day?"

Natasha.

You nodded absentmindedly, reaching for a towel to dry off your hands before facing her. "I would leave later, but you'd only reprimand me, doctor," you replied with a wry smile, glancing at the barely opened curtains not too far from you. "The.." you paused, thinking of what to say before speaking. "the girl is still not recovering." Only a 'hm' was what the doctor answered to you with. "I already took care to inject the prescribed medication. She stood still as usual."

"You worry for her, ____ ?" Natasha suggested, staring at you. It wasn't accusatory, more so a knowing inquiry. "It's hard not to when week after week we've seen patients beg for their lives to be saved," you admitted, swallowing a shapeless lump. "So many people here lack solutions to problems that are unfair." But inevitable. Illness was a thing, an ugly thing that would follow humanity until its end. Even if you wished, you could not simply erase it. "Try to not hold it on your conscience," the doctor suggested. She placed a warm hand on your shoulder, offering a reassuring squeeze. Although it did not do much, you still appreciated the gesture, so you attempted to smile at her to convey gratitude. "Go home," she spoke after a moment of silence. "Get the rest you deserve, ____. You've worked hard."

You turned open the door to the clinic, exiting the place. Breathing in oxygen—even if somewhat sullied and polluted—was a little better than the constant odor of medicine, antiseptics, pills, and clinical air. As much as you had to admit it was better for your lungs to not inhale much of the air in the Underworld, you also knew if you had to stay another minute in that clinic, you might just throw up, and not due to a little stomach bug.

You headed to your home—somewhere not too far from the clinic. Not too run-down, not too fancy; it was warm and it was home. That was enough for you. You pushed open the wooden door, closing it as you made your way upstairs to the attic. You slid off your coat, draping it over a chair beside a small table before you stretched your arms. The slight scent of the air stuffed with dust was familiar. You could relax now. You peered outside the windows, dragging a finger through the tainted glass, seeing the already faint life dim out from the streets.

Night was to come soon. You rubbed away the dust clinging to your finger, looking aside. You'd rest for the time being. Take a shower. Bathe in warm waters, if any were left at all. And then, sleep. Tomorrow would come. A day of rest. And a day, not to your knowledge, of much bargains.

The day was, well, rather lackluster if you were honest. Having been stuck inside the clinic for such a prolonged time did mean you had lost a sense of touch with your surroundings. It was almost as if you were revisiting this place again. The Underworld. New, almost. It was a sharp contrast to the clinic. You stood a few feet shy of its door, the habit of reporting early for work still nagging your conscience. But no, you reaffirmed. You'd get escorted out if you tried to pick up a single syringe. You turned on your heel only to momentarily freeze when you saw a particular, not-so-unfamiliar fellow smiling at you. It was almost pulled taut. Meanwhile, you nearly jumped at the sudden appearance of him. Where did he even come from? "Is that the famed Mr. ____ on a day off?!"

The way he drawled the words and prolonged that statement gave you the idea that he was going to pester you if you said yes, and if you said no, he'd likely not believe it. He'd visited enough times to know you were not a slacker, so, regardless of your choice of answer, you were going to put your foot in your mouth and end up having to hear the end of his poetic (and purposeful) and lengthy requests for a "mutually beneficial cooperation". And if you cut him short, he'd act as though you'd torn off him a limb and described the sorrow to a poet. "Well?" he insisted. "What's that look of shock for? Have you forgotten about your ol' pal Sampo?" Right, quit monologuing. "I, uh..."

"I do have the day off," you affirmed. "Sort of." You added that quickly. "Why?" You made sure to ask, granted that you didn't want him to whisk you away to a long conversation regarding why he was to be trusted with your money and favors he'd do for you, which while was a nice offer on his behalf, you'd heard enough rumors of scams coming from the man. "Oh, don't point fingers at me," the fellow began, taking a step back and clasping his hands together. "I have naught but good words for you, my friend! It's a pleasure to see you out and about—you've always been inside that clinic, no?"

You offered a wry smile—something that almost looked like a sheepish grimace to anyone else—before you attempted to ask again for his intentions. "Yes, I have," you replied with a slow nod. "It was Natasha's recommendation for me to take a few days off to unwind. Overworking, she called it." Those green eyes only smiled at you, without even accounting for the rest of his face. "Well, I dare say the doctor is right this time around," Sampo suggested, straightening his posture. "You've been hard at work every second of the day these past weeks! Have t'say, a little of you would be nice to see in many other places." You gave a strained chuckle, as in a silent thanks. "Well, I appreciate you being around, but I must be on my way. I had a few things in mind to do—" "Ah, but don't go just yet, my friend."

There was the bait's line.

The blue-haired fellow made half a step besides you, slinging his arm around your shoulder, nearly causing you to stumble as he kept on talking your ear off. "Why, I have a new proposal for you, Mr. ____ !" Forget about asking what he wanted. Nevermind. It's back to business and skedaddling with him as usual. "A proposal?" you spoke slowly (incredulously), not wanting to sound rude. "Sampo, I- I know you have a passion for this, but I just left th—"

"The clinic, I understand," he interrupted, placing his free hand atop his chest—specifically in the left, where his heart would be—as though he was speaking with emotion. The coy smile on him only served to bother you more. "But this! This is a rare opportunity, my friend." You stopped trying to speak up, feeling uncomfortable in the hold but unsure of how to weasel your way out. "After all, it's not every day you go about relaxing." That, you had to give him. You usually were busy. "Let's head downtown, maybe we can find something to light up this day of yours, eh? Of course, free of charge—"

"I very much doubt you'd do this out of the goodness in your heart, Sampo," you shook your head, though still smiling faintly. "You always have something you want to bargain with and bargain for." The man grinned. "Nonsense, I promise good ol' Sampo here has nothing but good intent reserved for you today." Selflessness as clear as the murky waters in Boulder Town, you reckon. This man always waltzed about with fingers crossed behind his back. If he was speaking about proposals, that meant that there was obviously going to be some sort of fee at the end of this whole debacle, and you were not quite sure that your idea of a nice, relaxing day would be beside this guy.

But what's the harm in saying yes once, you figured? Just once. Yeah. Maybe he'll go away then, give you some nice peace and quiet.

Too bad he didn't go away.

You held a glass cup, some liquor poured in it with ice teetering on the surface of the liquid. You weren't an alcoholic or a frequent drinker. You didn't want to ask either where Sampo had gotten his hands on something this high-quality, not to mentioned with a flavor that (although pungent at first) suited your preferences. Curious fellow. Maybe he wanted you to pay for this. Maybe that's what the bargain was all about.

"You still haven't told me what your 'proposal' from earlier was all about," you brought up, placing the glass cup down on the wooden table. You'd taken a few sips only, still waiting to get over the important details first before you'd get tipsy. "You declared I needed some jolly time off, and it's been fun hanging around this evening with you, but.." you trailed off, staring outside the window of the tavern. "you're not someone who simply does favors without getting something in return. If it's money you want for the drink, I can agree to cover part of the expenses." Sampo blinked, shaking his head no, waving a dismissive hand towards you as he set down his own drink. "I'm never one to turn down such favors, but I'm afraid I'll have to turn y'down this time," he smiled widely, and you laughed, though just to ease yourself.

"Now you're just worrying me more," you jested, perplexed. "You, of all people? Saying no to money? What's next? All the muck and rubbish down here glistens neat as a blue sky by tomorrow?" He laughed with you. "No, no, that's not it, Mr. ____, though I sure wish this muddy pit would lighten up a bit from time to time. The issue's not monetary payment this time around." He leaned back into his seat, gloved fingers fiddling around with a gold coin that shined under dim lights. "Please understand that in some.. bargains, it's not money the seller's after. For everything, there's an equal exchange," he spoke. "A fair price, if you will." He grinned. "Your time's worth my money."

That didn't sound like an exactly fair exchange, though. Yes, time is a rather invaluable thing, but to say it's worth money? In this situation, you can't say you agree. Was he trying to flirt? "Now, don't worry about this, it's no big deal!" he insisted, taking note that you felt a bit awkward. "I'm sure you're glad your ever-reliable pal Sampo brightened up your day, isn't that right?"

"Well, yes. Thank you for the unplanned detour," you agreed, fingers holding the glass cup with uncertainty. "Don't even mention it," the man enthused, chin resting on one of his hands now as he leaned in for a comfortable position. "And next time you need a convivial day, you can find me 'nytime." You smiled absentmindedly, staring at the glass cup. "For a fee?" you joked, briefly staring up back at him. "Glad to see you talking business already! Seems someone's been learning how to play around with his cards, I—" "I was joking, Sampo..."

Maybe it's just you. Or maybe it's him. Wherever you go, that man's there. Either it's starling coincidence, or he's sulking until you decide to finally take him up on one of his sketchy deals. Morning, you take your coffee. Afternoon, you pass by the mines. Evening, you go eat dinner. Midnight, you contemplate before sleeping. Regardless of where you venture, be it hazardous snow or monster-riddled mining territory, he's there. In the mines, you can understand there's money to be made. Workers can prove to be ideal customers. Certain gems can make some good money.

But some places simply aren't fitting as the "ideal job-hunting location" match. The tavern. A restaurant. The clinic. Well, perhaps that one is merely because it was familiar to you both. But then, what of the boxing ring, where you lurked among spectators? What of your habitual morning walk pathways? What of it all? You can't simply chalk it up to coincidence. Well, you could. But if you did that, you'd be ignoring a worrisome pattern.

You could talk to him, but he might rope you into another one of his usual escapades. You could confront him, but you doubt he'll be truthful. He says you can trust him, but you barely trust your own footing. You change your usual walking routes one day and you see him anyway. You ask, and he just says that "where there's business to be made, there is Sampo". You're starting to believe that wherever there's you, there's him. Two of a kind, a pair that people now see together. There's no actual assumptions of dabbling into affection, but some inquire why someone with your kind heart is roaming around with someone of his habits. You say he follows you. He says you're the best of partners in crime. You deny it. He praises it.

You run. He follows. You hide. He seeks. You ask. He lies. You question. He knows. You lay open your uncertainties and he births in you more doubts.

What is it with this man?

You stare at the liquor from days before, now sitting in the run-down room that is the attic above your other house's floor. You sealed the drink in a bottle and you're unsure of what's inside. It's not any common wine, and its composition is a little jarring, now that you stare upon it. Its color is off, if you had to take any guesses—you weren't an expert in how wine was prepared but from all alcoholic beverages and wines you'd seen, this wasn't a typical hue. You gaze at it for minutes on end before you rip your eyes away from the bottle. In a matter of hours, you'd be back to the clinic, you reminded yourself. Funny how these days were supposed to be relaxing. Look at you, worrying over nothing.

What even was the issue with this man? He hadn't stuck a knife to your throat, he'd only been around to chat with you in the clinic and provided some solace—you had no reason to be this paranoid. He was a friend. Company. Someone who wasn't sick or dying and begging to be saved at your hands. He had been someone you could breathe around, bothersome as he was with his constant charades and occasional inquiries of dabbling into dubious deals. What was wrong with you? Making accusations headed nowhere and coming from nowhere—you were equally frustrated as you felt this was pointless.

Enough thinking, ____. You're going places in your head.

The rotting air was getting to you, maybe. You left it at that. You decided it was the best—the least concerning and most believable—excuse to reason this all with. You'd left yourself tired from months on end, and this was what you got. Voices running around in your head telling you something's acting up. Maybe if you could throw up all those white noises, it could clear your head for a while.

Drink some liquor. Drown that voice away. Drown it out of your mind.

You opened the door to the clinic. You pushed to the side the curtains far at the end. The white bed was empty. Some splotches of murky substances were there. Your hand fell to your side, and you didn't quite understand why you were surprised. Well, rather than surprised, almost.. "____?" .... guilty. "Where is she, doctor?"

You don't know why you bothered asking. A headache splintered in your head already. Maybe it was the aftermath of having drunk more of the liquor after dark. "Be honest, doctor." Maybe hearing the words from her would be better. Maybe. "From what we had, there was no apparent treatment to cure her. She passed away not so long ago." But maybe if you'd stayed in the clinic this wouldn't be going on. "You shouldn't have sent me away, Natasha," you croaked out. You weren't upset over her death, you were upset that you had decided to rest and failed to aid her. The remnants of the patient disgusted you. A murky red was on a silver tray beside all the cut wires and leaking fluids from bags that had now been folded onto other trays. Putrid. Metallic odors wafting all over with antiseptic. You pinched the bridge of your nose with two fingers, rubbing your eyes then before exhaling.

"Anything new while I was resting, Ms. Natasha?"

The use of formal titles should've been an indication that you weren't feeling too well. The doctor understood; this was, after all, a normal occurrence and a fair reaction to these events. It's a feeling that occurs to many. You were experiencing it firsthand, and she could not blame you. "You have a letter," she answered. "I left it near the sink. I had intended to give it to you upon entering, but you had already headed over here before I could give you the news." You nodded, taking steps back before you headed over to grasp the envelope. The paper was whiter than any parchment and fabric you'd seen for many years—another sign of the quality material that was produced in the overworld—something privy only to those from "the world above". You carefully peeled open the envelope, removing the letter from inside, reading its contents.

May this letter find its recipient well, It has come to the attention of the Medicinal Department the continuous progress made by ____ ______. As the invitation to recruit such individuals possessing a gift in this risky occupation is one that is desired to be accepted, the intended recipient will have a day to return to the Overworld. On this rare occasion, we have decided to not oppose the recommendation of this individual. Please, arrive in due time, or rejection will be assumed.

No sender. But this couldn't be a joke. If Natasha had thought it to be one, she would have likely told you upon the moment you set the letter down. But she said nothing. You said nothing. You only stared. You felt almost honored that such an event had occurred. This was highly improbable—nearly impossible in contrast to all the other outcomes of your life—and it felt like a dream too good. Doubt was crawling into you.

"Will you go?" Natasha asked after a few moments of silence. "It would benefit you if you decided to go." That, you knew. You nodded slowly. "I will go. I'm simply finding it hard to abandon everything down here." "The clinic?" You nodded again. "Not just the clinic," you spoke. "the people down here in the Underworld. Patients and neighbors alike. Being here for such a long time makes this place feel like home." It was close to becoming your home at this rate. "I can understand," the doctor replied. "but make haste. I'm not the person who can give you a way to the surface, but I'm sure the new faces down here are willing to give you a helping hand. If not, maybe some Silvermane Guards around can point to you a path."

Blue. White. Silver. Pellets of snow. Ice. And a ghoulish pollutant in the from of crystals. That was the Overworld. You saw colors you hadn't before, seeing in blue when you'd become used to sepia and nothing else. You were accompanied by four Silvermane Guards and two individuals in white cloaks—researchers, you had to assume, or people from the Medicinal Department. A coat had been draped around you, although nothing lavish such as what others near you wore. You wish you had combed your hair a little better and at least washed yourself more thoroughly before coming up here, but with scarce resources, you couldn't arrive with an opulent exterior.

A bit of an odor stuck to you, but you figured there was nothing to be done about it. Upon treading staircases and passing through large doors, you entered a place you felt was not somewhere you fit in. You were dirty. A piece of filth. This place, on the contrary was glistening. Pearly. Perfectly and carefully crafted, polished from each corner to the very edges of the frames hugging the glass panes of windows arched around the walls. "You can leave him here." That was all you heard from afar.

Questions would be asked. You needed only answer properly. Here was a chance for a better life. Your golden ticket. A bead of sweat ran down your nape. "Start with your name, assistant of those below."

Not a footstep. Not a speck of dust. No water left running. Only a bottle of liquor emptied on a half-torn shelf and an unused jacket was what he found. The clinic was emptied, and not even Miss Clara had offered so much as a hint to where you had scurried off to. Natasha asked why the "one and only Sampo Koski" had decided to waltz in unnanounced, and he had unfetteredly answered that he was to deliver a little gift to a friend.

But the doctor disavowed knowledge to your disappearance. A bit frustrating, but, this hadn't been his first time digging himself into perplexing situations. Intel was his area of expertise, and when it came to finding slippery folks, he was the first on the list, so why would finding another beneath him be difficult? Nonsense, it'd be a walk in the park—or rather, a walk in the snow.

It did not take very long for Sampo to come to understand that you had left the Underworld, somehow. In what way and with whom, he couldn't know. If he had to make a guess, however, it would've been with the recent visitors—the gray-haired one and the two others that tailed along. But methods aside, if you were up in the Overworld, the search was going to become a little difficult, and simply for the reason that getting in was a bit of a complicated thing, when he was practically the first name to come out of rich businessmen seething at a recent scam or robbery (at no one's surprise when they put the blame on 'Sampo Koski'). At this point, he'd become famous, though not for good reasons.

But difficult or not, he was sure that you weren't a complete recluse. You wouldn't turn down an offer to speak with him either, no? He had taken the time in your days off to occupy your schedule—perhaps it had tired you, but those days were wholly splendid to the conman. An absolute joy. And an absolute pity that the moment right after such delight you had gone up and disappeared. Right into thin air. Having come to understand your habits, this was unusual and a shock. When you learn patterns of a person, you come to realize unusual behavior when it occurs. This particular disappearance act of yours had left Sampo stunned, almost, because discreet as he was, you had, in a moment's opportunity, slipped past him.

But if you wanted to start becoming a magician, Sampo figured that he could add another element to your unscripted play. Just that yours was harmless—his was a little.. icky. But it's a trick, after all, and tricks are meant to deceive! You left him alone in the rotting decay—he is merely making up for such a cruel decision on your behalf, as would be fair in the eyes of judges!

"You can go home. But, don't forget that we have to report early tomorrow morning. We have a new drug to test. Higherups have been asking for a long time now for a working treatment, and we can't afford to slack off now."

You slung your brown satchel around your shoulder, nodding before leaving, closing the door. Life in the Overworld was a life you could've never imagined down below in the Underworld. No filth. No nothing. Anything remotely dangerous was beyond the walls. And that was a place no one ever ventured to. If you roamed beyond the walls, you would be sent back. No one was to leave the gates. Almost as though they were attempting to conceal something from the public. Having lived most of your life in a place where all you knew was rubble, dirt, and repugnant scenery, along with the struggle to pass by to see another day, you figured things couldn't be far worse beyond the walls, and that people above the ground had been living an illusion of a lack of awareness of the putrid behavior towards those in the Underworld.

Working along a group of renowned researchers meant the expenses for your living arrangements were covered, and the money you obtained from your job at present allowed for a stable self-sustenance. You had been allowed to live in a small apartment—it was cozy, well-kept, and was far more comfortable than where you used to live—which you thought to be a gracious gesture. You half expected to be left to fend for yourself in the streets, considering your origins, but that wasn't the case, and it made you feel grateful.

You arrived in a few minutes to your apartment, twisting the keys into the lock of the door of your room, opening and closing the door as you entered. You left your satchel and coat draped over a plain desk, your stare the shifting to your room. It appeared in mild disarray, some of your belongings seemingly having been touched. The cleaning staff, maybe? But you figure that they wouldn't even go through the trouble of opening your drawers, let alone rummaging through the sheets in the manner that had been displayed.

You stared around—no sign of human life and presence—it looked more like someone had been here, not like someone was still here. You thought wrong, a sphere-shaped item thrown in your direction. A pungent odor spread through the room, and a gray, gaseous substance filtered into the room. Now, you were no expert in deciphering what these unknown substances were, but you could deduce that it would be wisest for you to not inhale it. That proved difficult, however, when a hand grasped your wrist, another to your left shoulder.

You made the attempt to wriggle out of being held, but as a result of your constant push and pull from your assailant, a sharp blade made a large incision in your skin, a gash now striping across your forearm. Whoever was making an attempt on your life was armed. The crimson fluid now leaking out of your flesh and down your arms and the momentary shock did not save you enough, because the surprise soon morphed into an unearthly pain, and a hand covering your mouth forced you to the floor. The grip on you was harsh enough to bruise, and without much more needed strength, you began to inhale just to gain oxygen. Unfortunately, and you were aware, you did not breathe in oxygen. It took only seconds for your vision to blur, and before you felt you would choke, black splotches covered your vision.

Cold. Dark. Murky. You felt you'd been bruised all over when you came to be. You'd either hit yourself extremely badly, or someone had gone ahead and beat the daylights out of you when you weren't awake. Your arms were covered in gauze wraps, all the bandages stained with scarlet and red, no doubt due to injuries you'd suffered. You felt an ache all over your body, and in a few minutes, you'd managed to remember what had happened. You'd made your way back to your apartment, and when in your room, you had been attacked. By whom, you did not know.

All you could remember was gas, an exchange of violence, and then you blacking out. You stared at your arms—even while bandaged, you had been tied up. A kidnapping, more likely, was what you had just gone through. What you were not expecting, however, was the streak of blue hair and catlike, green eyes adorning your assailant when the door of the run-down room opened. "Aren't you so glad to be awake, now?"

"Sampo?"

The word left out of your mouth as a mix between fear, confusion, revulsion, and resentment. You wanted to say it wasn't true. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe he was just here to help you, yes, maybe that's just what was going on, you had been found, and— "Now, I'm sorry for all I had to hit you earlier, Mr. ____," he apologized with faux sympathy, his right hand placed over his heart. "but I'm afraid you just wouldn't let me have it easy!"

"Sampo, I need you to get me back up in the Overworld right now," you said, looking around you. This wasn't the Overworld—it couldn't be. It had that pungent smell of the Underworld, that scent of dirt and rubble, that disgusting filth all over the air. "Sampo, I have a job to tend to." "And your job used to be down here, doctor, but it appears someone left without even a word!" the conman interrupted, brows furrowed into a bit of a frown. "You wound me, having left promptly— not even without a word of consideration for your pal—"

"Sampo, I don't have time to play your petty games!" You seethed, and though your head hurt, you were too irate to care for your pain at this time. "I was given a job, an opportunity of a lifetime, and you do this, for what?! To say hi to a friend?! This isn't funny, Sampo, this isn't a funny joke. I could get fired and sent to rot down here again!" But all throughout your speech, Sampo did not so much as offer you a hint of empathy for your losses. In fact, you would go as far as to say that he appeared uncaring. His eyes did not signal a wounded surprise—it simply signaled amusement, and he was not even smiling—the fact he looked so plain yet still entertained bothered you to no end and dug a pit in your stomach.

"____," he began, smiling. "I did tell you a long time ago there was a fee for my kindness. I didn't pull any strings because yours truly saw that you were a man of his word, and honest folk like you don't need to be locked up like birds in a cage when you're stuck in a hole of mud that is this Underworld." He extended one arm towards you— it was almost poetic. "But you ran away. That changed the picture a little bit. You pulled a bit of a magic trick, and oh, don't get me wrong, I do live for a bit of a fun time, but you pulled a little disappearance act without ensuring you would reappear," he continued, taking more steps around you. "And that, my friend, was the flaw in your performance."

"Where is this even coming from?" you demanded. "Sampo, I gave you a chance because I had grown tired of seeing half-alive corpses asking me to fix them. You were the only one who wasn't disembodied or rotting on sheets." You stared away, finding yourself repulsed by the presence of the conman. "I had heard on various occasions that you were not a man to lurk around, but now? You're not just awful, you're full of shit— You're not kind, you're selfish and self-absorbed, you're—"

"An opportunist, my friend," Sampo interrupted you, smiling at you. "Any good man who knows the value of the deals he strikes and what he's after will know when to take risks." The more he talked, the more you wanted to hit him yourself. He had taken from you your life, your dream, a future career, a solution, some semblance of salvation. You almost wanted to cry. "You're horrible, Sampo. You're cruel," you hissed, biting your tongue as the pain from your limbs shot up through you again. "You took so much—everything—from me right when it'd just started. Right when I'd just gotten out of this sack of shit!"

His smile only widened more. You paused. "Is this some kind of twisted joke to you, is this amusing to you? Is that it?" Sampo only waved a dismissive hand at you. If only you'd been in reach, you would've gladly dug your nails into it to make it bleed. "You came from this dark pit," Sampo explained, pointing to the ground. "And even if you try to grow wings, you simply can't become a bird after having lived your life as a worm. You'll just crash! And I hate to see someone like you crash and get hurt."

"You were the reason I crashed, Sampo!" you retorted, leaning forward. "Is that hate you're feelin'?" the conman jested, almost laughing. Bile rose through your throat. "It's more than hate, Sampo. You've ruined so much for me, you've not a clue." He only shook his head. "A true pity, I have t'say! Thought we could've worked things out." Again, the gold coin you saw at the tavern was being played with in one of his hands. "But, as the sayin' goes..." Sampo began,