Irin exhaled slowly as he adjusted his coat. I need money. Steady money, shelter, and food.
"Alright," he muttered under his breath as he passed a cart piled with sacks.
"First rule of surviving in a city is getting a paying job."
The logic was simple enough. He could not rely on charity forever. He could not keep running. If he wanted to survive in this city, he needed a job. An honest, paying job. Something that would keep him fed and give him time to settle in before considering other options.
"I'll start small," he said. "I'll become a sales boy. A shop assistant. A clerk. An Errand runner. Anything."
With that decision, he squared his shoulders and began asking around.
The first shop was a cloth store with loads of fabric hanging from the ceiling to the floor.
"Excuse me," Irin said politely. "Are you hiring?"
The shopkeeper, a bald man, looked him up and down before shaking his head.
"No positions," the man said flatly. "Come back next season."
The second shop he stopped at was a bakery. Warm air rolled out when he opened the door. He stepped inside the bakery, and the scent of bread made his stomach jump with hunger.
"I was wondering if—"
"Sorry," the baker cut in, wiping his hands on his apron. "I was just employed yesterday. I filled in the last vacancy."
"Oh," Irin said. "Right. Congratulations."
The baker blinked in surprise, then nodded. "Thanks."
Irin tried the third and fourth shops, and it all ended in the same response.
"Someone has already taken the job."
"All positions are currently occupied."
"I'd consider it, but business is slow. I can barely feed myself."
Even a blacksmith's apprentice whom Irin asked for a job vacancy laughed at him. "You? No offense, kid, but you look like you've never lifted iron."
After the seventh rejection, Irin developed sore feet from walking about.
Eventually, he gave up.
He stopped beneath the shade of a tall brick building and leaned back against its wall. He closed his eyes for a moment, panting from exhaustion.
"Is this how hard job hunting is in Nikara?" he whispered.
"It's the second most populous city in Tajara, and yet I can't even find someone willing to let me sweep their floors."
"Damn! Someone should have given me a heads-up. Finding a job is difficult."
As he opened his eyes and shifted his head, a poster on the wall beside him caught his eye.
Compared to the other posters, this one was newer with information written boldly in black ink.
Irin leaned closer and read:
{EMPLOYMENT AVAILABLE}
POSITION: SPECIAL DETECTIVE…
PAY: GENEROUS
LOCATION: NO. 23 WOLF STREET
"Special detective?" he repeated quietly.
He felt like laughing at first. The words seemed ridiculous coming from him.
An Investigator? Him? A former prisoner who almost died and fled a town?
He had no social standing, no credentials, and no formal training. His expertise lay in surviving hellish prisons, deadly monsters, and mad priests. It was not a material-worthy résumé.
The pay was generous. He considered that despite his lack of skills for the job.
Slowly, he reached up and tore the poster from the wall. He folded it carefully and slipped it into his pocket.
"I might apply for the job," he told himself. "Maybe I might not."
He pushed himself to his feet and reached for the coins in his pouch. The copper coins clinked softly as he counted them. He frowned, counted again, then exhaled in relief.
"Alright," he said. "I can afford a roof over my head."
His pursuit of shelter came next.
He walked several blocks before spotting a modest hotel tucked between two taller buildings. The signboard's paint had faded almost completely. However, one could still read its description because it was visible enough.
WAYFARER'S REST.
Irin walked to the front door and opened it. A bell chimed as he stepped into the reception. He walked ahead until he spotted a woman, older than fifty, seated behind the counter. She looked up from a ledger and studied him with sharp eyes.
"Afternoon," she said. "You need a room?"
"Yes," Irin replied. "Do you have any vacancies?"
She nodded at once. "How long do you plan to stay?"
"Half a month," he said after a brief calculation. "If possible."
She raised an eyebrow. "That'll be sixty copper. Three per night."
According to the Elusian calendar, which their world used, there were forty days in a month. And ten months make up one Elusian calendar year.
So half a month is twenty days.
"Okay," Irin said.
He counted out the coins carefully and passed them over. She recounted the coins, and when she was sure the coins were complete, she slid a key across the counter.
"Room thirty-five," she said. "Upstairs. Third door on the left."
As Irin turned to leave, she added, "Business hasn't been good. You're my first guest in a long while who will stay for a while."
"I cook a lot," she continued, gesturing vaguely toward the back. "I have no family left. If you're hungry, you can come down and eat. It's on the house."
Irin looked back at her and nodded. "Thank you."
He climbed the stairs and found room 35 exactly as she had described. He opened the door with the keys and stepped in.
The room was a normal space with a moderate bed, a chair, and a table with a study lamp beside the window.
Irin adjusted the curtains and opened the window. After observing the city view for a bit, he proceeded to inspect the bathroom. It was old, but serviceable.
"That'll do," he said.
He unpacked what little he had, tucking his money and ticket stub into the wardrobe. Then he took a long, hot bath to ease himself of the stress he had endured ever since he set foot in Nikara.
When he was done, he went downstairs and ate until he no longer felt hungry. Returning to his room, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the folded poster from his pocket. He stared at the poster for a long time before he finally came to a conclusion.
"I will apply for the job."