Bath

Mara's office door was still open when he returned. She didn't look up from her paperwork as he hovered in the doorway. 

"Back already?" she said, voice dry. "Did you forget how doors work?" 

Fin scratched the back of his neck. "Uh, yeah. About that. I kinda… don't have a place to stay. Or food. Or, you know, money." 

Mara's pen paused. She lifted her head slowly, eyes narrowing. "You're telling me you spent your entire life in the slums and still haven't learned basic survival skills?" 

"Uh, I had money," he muttered. "But...you know, I got jumped and hospitalized. They took all my money." 

She exhaled through her nose, like he was a particularly frustrating math problem. Then, with deliberate slowness, she opened a drawer and pulled out a small pouch. It landed on the desk with a heavy clink. 

"Five hundred credits," she said. "Enough for one night at the Sleepy Boar hotel and a meal. Don't waste it." 

He blinked. "You're just… giving me money?" 

She looked up at him annoyed, "Isn't that why you are here?" She looked back to her papers.

He stared at the pouch of credits on her desk like it might bite him. 

"Uh," he said intelligently. "Thanks?" 

She didn't look up. "It's an advance. Against your first paycheck. Which means you owe me. Now get out." 

He snatched the pouch before she could change her mind. The weight of it in his hand felt unreal. Five hundred credits. More than he'd ever held at once. 

"Right. Yeah. I'll just… go then." He backed toward the door, half-expecting her to yank the money back. 

She didn't. 

He stepped out of the Guild, the pouch of five hundred credits jingling in his pocket. The sun was dipping low, painting the sky orange, and his stomach growled louder than a tunnel snake.

"Alright, Sleepy Boar, where are you?" he muttered, glancing around like the hotel might pop up and wave at him.

He started walking, figuring a hotel called "Sleepy Boar" couldn't be too far from the Guild. How hard could it be to find? 

Turns out, pretty damn hard. The streets twisted like a maze, full of fancy shops with signs he couldn't read half the time and people who side-eyed him like he'd crawled out of a dumpster. Which, fair, he kind of looked like he had.

After wandering for what felt like hours—probably twenty minutes—he stopped a guy pushing a cart of apples. 

"Hey, uh, you know where the Sleepy Boar is?"

The guy wrinkled his nose, looking Fin up and down. "That hotel? Three streets over, left at the big fountain. Good luck affording it, kid." He snorted and rolled his cart away.

Fin frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?" he grumbled, but he trudged on. Three streets over, left at the fountain—got it. Except the "big fountain" was more like a puddle with a statue spitting water, and he missed it twice before circling back.

By the time he spotted a wooden sign with a snoozing pig painted on it, his legs ached, and he was ready to fight the next person who stared at him funny.

The Sleepy Boar wasn't some grand palace, but it looked a million times nicer than anything in the slums. Two stories, brown brick, with glowing lanterns by the door. 

He pushed it open, and a little bell jingled. Inside, the air smelled like bread and wood polish—not a whiff of rot or monster guts. People sat at tables, eating and chatting, and every single one turned to stare at him.

He froze. His patched jeans, bloody shirt, and scuffed boots screamed "slum rat" louder than ever. A lady with a fancy hat whispered something to her friend, and they both giggled. 

His ears burned, but his stomach growled again, and he was too tired to care. "Screw it," he muttered, marching toward the reception desk.

A man in a crisp suit stood behind the counter, all slick hair and shiny shoes. When Fin got close, the guy's hand shot up, covering his mouth and nose like Fin was a walking sewer. 

"Can I help you?" he asked, voice muffled and dripping with disgust.

"Yeah," Fin said, crossing his arms. "I need a room. And food."

The suit guy raised an eyebrow, looking Fin up and down like he was sizing up a stray dog. "This is an expensive establishment. Perhaps you'd be more comfortable elsewhere. Like, say, an alley?"

Fin's jaw tightened. He was done with this crap. Without a word, he yanked the pouch from his pocket and dumped the credits on the counter. Coins clinked and rolled, gleaming under the light. 

"That enough for you?"

The man's eyes widened, and his hand dropped fast. His whole face flipped—like someone flipped a switch from "jerk" to "best buddy."

"Oh! My apologies, sir! Welcome to the Sleepy Boar!" He scooped up the credits with a grin so fake Fin wanted to punch it. "A room and a meal, absolutely. Right this way!"

Fin smirked. "Yeah, thought so."

The guy led him to a table near the back, away from the fancy folks still staring. A waitress bounced over—short, freckled, with a smile that didn't feel forced. 

"What'll you have?" she asked, pen ready.

"Uh, whatever's hot and fast," he said. "And big. I'm starving."

"Stew and bread, coming up!" She scribbled it down, then glanced at his torn shirt. "Rough day, huh?"

He snorted. "Rough life."

She laughed. "Fair. I'll be quick." Before she turned away, he stopped her.

"Hey, uh, any chance you could grab me some clothes? Nothing fancy, just… not this." He tugged at his shredded sleeve.

Her eyes lit up. "Oh, totally! My brother's got a pile of stuff he doesn't wear. I'll dig something out. No charge!"

"Really?" Fin blinked. "Thanks. You're a lifesaver."

She winked. "Least I can do for a guy who looks like he fought a bear and won."

"More like a wolf," he muttered as she hurried off.

The food came fast—steaming beef stew with hunks of bread bigger than his fist. Fin tore into it like a monster himself, barely chewing. The stew was thick, salty, and warm, and the bread soaked it up perfect. 

For a second, he forgot the stares, the pain, everything. "This," he said through a full mouth, "is what heaven tastes like."

The waitress—her name was Tess, she'd said—dropped off a bundle of clothes while he ate. "Here you go. Pants, shirt, even a jacket. Should fit you decent."

He swallowed a chunk of bread. "You're my new favorite person, Tess."

She grinned. "Good, 'cause I'm keeping the tip."

After stuffing his face, Fin grabbed the clothes and his room key—a real key, not some rusty scrap—and headed upstairs. Room 12 was small but clean: a bed with actual sheets, a chair, and a tiny bathroom. He locked the door, dropped the clothes on the bed, and beelined for the bath.

He turned the knob, and hot water poured out—clear, steaming, not the muddy sludge he was used to. A bar of soap sat on the sink, pale yellow and smelling like flowers or fruit or something he couldn't name but loved instantly.

He stripped off his filthy rags, stepped into the tub, and sank under the water.

"Oh my god," he groaned, scrubbing his arms. The soap lathered up white and soft, washing away dirt, blood, and slum stink. He rubbed it into his hair, grinning like an idiot as bubbles dripped down his face. 

"This is it. I've peaked. Clean water, good soap—nothing beats this."

He stayed in there 'til his fingers wrinkled, just soaking and sniffing the soap like a weirdo. When he finally climbed out, he felt like a new person. The mirror showed the same scruffy Fin—messy hair, sharp jaw—but cleaner, less like a walking corpse.

He pulled on the new clothes: brown pants that actually fit, a gray shirt with no holes, and a jacket with pockets deep enough to hide stuff in.

"Not bad," he said, turning side to side. "Still me, just… less pathetic."

Flopping onto the bed, he stared at the ceiling—no cracks, no stains, just smooth wood. Tomorrow, he'd face a Rank 2 dungeon and he survived, he would get his first pay check.

But right now? He was fed, clean, and safe. For one night, that was enough.