The white cat walks on the snow. He has two black spots on its front paws, as if he were wearing socks. The snow crunches as the cat steps slowly, sinking until the hairs on his white belly get wet. Something catches his attention. He crouches down and opens his eyes wide. His pupils are dilated. He wags his tail from side to side. Takes a jump and disappears under the snow. All that can be seen is a hole through which the tip of his tail is sticking out.

I open my eyes. I am sitting in the chair in the waiting room. I am alone; for some reason Gabriel is not here today. I look at my hands, expecting to see them burned, but they are intact. I lift up my shirt and check that I have no burns.

That ungrateful dwarf. I try to help him, and this is how he repays me. With a fireball.

I dreamt of a cat again, but this time it wasn't Colonel. Who is the white cat with socks? Maybe I have two cats, a black one named Colonel, and a white one named Socks. I hope so, that relieves me, to know that at least they will be together. They will have each other.

The room has only one door and no windows. On the door there is a picture hung with geometric shapes and colors: purple and orange rectangles, yellow circles, blue crescents, and green leaf shapes. They are symmetrically distributed along the paper, forming a big circle. I think it's a mandala, it must be Gabriel's. It strikes me that it is not perfect: I see three figures that are painted in a color that does not correspond to them, breaking the symmetry, and I wonder if it is because the artist got confused, or if it has some other meaning.

I hear a gasp coming from behind the door. It sounds like Gabriel's voice. From the noises, he must be having ‘a good time’ in the next room. I decide not to disturb him. After all, I must stay here until tomorrow morning so I can get back to the players' area. Players are lucky in that they barely have to wait more than a couple of minutes when they die, but we NPCs don't have it so easy. Another of the injustices of the Game. It's as if those who made the rules hate us.

I'll take the opportunity while Gabriel is ‘busy’ to fiddle with the holo-bracelet. In the forge I hardly have any free time for myself, there is almost always a player to serve or to attend to.

Speaking of players, what's the matter with that Marcel to be so cruel to me? It's not like I did anything to him, it was the paladin who killed him, and the barbarian who looted his corpse. What did he want me to do? I'm just an NPC. Luckily, thanks to the sensitive filters in the connection capsule, getting scorched to death wasn't much more painful than getting kicked in the shin, but it's still unpleasant.

I settle into the chair, activate the holo-bracelet and start messing around. I wish I could have an internet connection, which would allow me to know what is going on in the real world, but it seems that all those functionalities that the players have available in my case are blocked. I can only access mission information that I can give to players and my inventory. No spells, no messages, nothing at all. I can't even level up or gain experience points. I am doomed to stay as I am: a level 20 blacksmith with no possibility of progress or change, repeating the same sentences over and over again.

After several minutes of unsuccessful fiddling, I hear the room door open. Gabriel enters, his white coat unbuttoned. When he sees me, he stands still and blushes. I lean out to see if there is anyone behind him or in the next room. I don't see anyone, but on the floor is a black bra.

“Isaac, what are you doing here?” Gabriel says as he closes the door.

“A player has decided to test to see if I'm flammable.”

Gabriel fastens the buttons of his coat. He takes out his tablet and types something on it. After a minute he tells me:

“You were killed by Marcel, a level 8 dwarf cleric.”

“It's not the kid's fault. He had a run-in with another player, and it didn't sit well with him.”

Deep down, I can't help but feel a little sorry for the image of the barefoot dwarf looking for his red boots. I remember all the times I've seen him, both when he has come to do the mission of the logs these days, and when I've seen him from afar. He is always alone, not talking to anyone. The rest of the players usually go in groups, but not him. Deep down I guess I feel sorry for the guy. He reminds me of when I was his age.

“Did you do something to provoke him?”

“Nothing at all. I did not leave the dialogue of the mission, as you ordered: ‘Welcome, adventurer. I'm Isaac, the blacksmith of Windfield’ and the whole string of things afterward.”

“According to the recording, it seems clear that he is the one who initiates the aggression with the fireball, but it seems that you are telling him something before he starts preparing the spell. Too bad that because of the data protection law, audio cannot be recorded. Are you sure you didn't go off script?”

Blessed law! I breathe a sigh of relief. It seems that recording the avatar images is not a problem, but the players' voices are another story.

“Well, I may have mentioned some minor thing to him. But nothing to justify a fireball.”

Gabriel looks at me over his glasses for a moment. He sighs and puts the tablet away.

“Isaac, I would hate to have to report this irregularity to the board of Game developers. Please promise me that you will not go off the script that has been established for you.”

“I promise. Word of NPC.”

“Good. You have a little less than ten hours left until you can rejoin your work in the players' area. If you want, you can take the opportunity to rest a little.”

“Gabriel, would it be possible to have access to the real world? I'd like to know about my cats.”

“Cats?”

“Yes, Colonel and Socks.”

Gabriel takes out the tablet again and writes something on it.

“I'm sorry, Isaac. Your contract prevents you from having contact with the real world for the duration of your NPC job.”

“And how long will I have to spend here before I can leave?”

“Just a few more weeks. Be patient. Your cats will be fine.”

A few more weeks. Only a few weeks and I'll be back to enjoying my freedom in my wood-floored home playing with Colonel and Socks. It doesn't seem like a long time.

“Thank you very much for the logs, adventurer.  You have saved the forge. I will be eternally grateful. Here's your gold coin”

My goodness. I get depressed just thinking that I still have several weeks of slavery left in the game. I can't take it anymore. I need a vacation with my cats.

The level 93 paladin has returned my grandmother's lost medallion. He comes every day. When he walks past the forge, I see how the other players look at him with admiration. Some even ask him if they can make a self-video with him. He must be famous within the Game.

As he hands me the medallion, I can't help but notice that next to it, in my inventory, are Marcel's red boots. It's been a day since the dwarf decided it was worth spending a fireball scroll on me. Not that it took that much effort to wipe out my life bar. The scroll must have cost him ten times the money he lost when the barbarian looted his corpse. It doesn't seem like a very logical action.

The medallion, as usual, disappears from my inventory a few hours after delivery, and the mission to eliminate the bandits of the forest is activated again. Hardly anyone asks me for it, only the paladin, who comes every evening to request it. It must be a complicated mission to perform for the profit you get.

I see Marcel in the distance. I notice that he has leveled up and is now level 9. I guess killing a level 20 NPC must have given him a few experience points.

The poor guy is still barefoot. The ban on killing an NPC has already expired because the guard patrol ignores him. As usual, he is alone. He approaches the forge and strikes up conversation. Here we go.

“Welcome, adventurer. How can I help you?” I recite the script, pretending I don't know him. He stands there, waiting idly. There's suspicion in the way he looks at me with his green eyes.

“Hello?” he says.

“Welcome, adventurer. How can I help you?” I repeat my entry as if I were an automaton. I see him give up. He selects the mission of collecting logs and I offer it to him.

“Very well, I'm glad you asked. I need wood for the forge fire. If you could bring me ten logs gathered in the forest east of the village, I would pay you with a gold coin. I hope you can bring them soon, or I will have no choice but to close my business. Thank you very much!”

I see him march towards the forest. It seems that everything is back to normal.

He returns in an hour with the ten logs and hands them to me.

“Thank you very much for the logs, adventurer.  You have saved the forge. I will be eternally grateful. Here's your gold coin” The experience meter appears above his head. I hesitate for a moment. I open my inventory on the holo-bracelet, select the red boots, and transfer them to his inventory along with the gold coin.

Marcel walks a few meters away and stops. He stands for a moment and looks at his holo-bracelet. He turns with a shocked face and puts on his red boots.

“Thank you,” I hear him whisper.

I'm about to say something when the paladin appears. Again, he is accompanied by a group of players, including the barbarian with the oversized helmet. He must come to request the medallion mission again so that he can go tonight to carry it out. He walks past Marcel without paying him attention. Marcel's face changes. His green eyes shine with hatred.

“Give me back my coins, you idiot,” he says in his high-pitched voice. The paladin doesn't even pause. He approaches me, turning his back on Marcel, as if he were a minor annoyance. I can see a haughty smile on his face. Behind him, Marcel pulls out a scroll. Here we go again. At least this time I am not the target of his anger.

Marcel begins to prepare his spell. The paladin continues to ignore him, and the rest of the players walk away. He hands me the medallion. I recite the mission text quickly, almost breathlessly. He also sells me the bandit captain's leather bracelets, and I give him the corresponding hundred coins.

The orange bar reaches the end and Marcel throws the fireball. Unfortunately, I find myself next to the paladin, so I resign myself to dying charred again, ready to spend another boring night in the waiting room. At least this time I had nothing to do with it.

At the last moment the paladin raises his fist, and a protective sphere appears around him, blocking the spell and absorbing half the destructive power of the fireball. The paladin's health bar doesn't drop more than a quarter, and mine doesn't flinch.

The rest of the players comment admiringly on the shield spell. The paladin turns and draws his greatsword. With his level 93, the level 9 dwarf is hardly a nuisance.

Marcel's mouth drops open as the paladin advances with his greatsword in his hands. The dwarf pulls out another scroll and the orange spell preparation bar reappears. My goodness, how many fireball scrolls does this kid have?

The paladin walks over, smiles, and slowly hits the dwarf with the flat of his greatsword on the head. The dwarf staggers from the blow. His health bar drops by a third, and the orange bar disappears. The blow has interrupted the preparation of the spell. The players surrounding the spectacle laugh at the red-booted dwarf and mock him. Determined to finish reading the scroll, the dwarf begins to prepare the spell again, to which the paladin responds with another blow with the blunt end of the blade. The boy's health bar is below half.

Without being able to help it, I remember all the times I was beaten when I was little. At school, at high school, at university. The strong ones abuse the little ones, and the little ones have no choice but to take the blows.

“Enough!” Without thinking, I jump determined to intervene. I place myself between the two players, with the hammer and the apron as the only protection.

All the players around me go silent. Shit. I shouldn't have spoken. This tongue of mine is going to cause me nothing but trouble.

The paladin remains standing, with the greatsword in his hands. He looks at me hesitantly.

“Stay away,” he says.

“Leave him alone. Can't you see he's just a kid?” I see him looking at me with a quizzical face. An NPC going off script doesn't sit well with him. He looks askance at the other players watching the scene from a safe distance.

“Stay out of the way, this isn't for you, blacksmith.”

I do not move from the spot. I tighten my grip on the hammer. The paladin tries to slap me away. I turn my face away and dodge it smoothly. He looks at me in bewilderment. The other players fall silent and some of them murmur.

“You asked for it,” he says. I can see him preparing to strike my side. I see every muscle in his body, but I feel him moving in slow motion. I anticipate the sweep of his greatsword and keep him from reaching me. Is unbelievable! For a moment I feel invincible, as if I have superpowers. The paladin's movements are very fast and precise, but I have no trouble avoiding his attacks. I calculate each trajectory of his arm, the arc that the edge of his greatsword will describe, and I only have to tell my body to move to the exact place so as not to be at the point where the blow would land. We continue with the choreography of lunges and continuous movements. The mocking smile has faded from his face and now one of rage emerges. People look at us with their mouths open. He goes on the attack again, this time with a sweep towards my legs. I shift twenty centimeters to the side and lift my foot at just the right moment. Again, it is not enough. I hit him on the breastplate with my hammer. The impact resounds, but it barely takes his life away. Due to the large level difference, my attacks are ineffective, although they serve to anger the paladin even more.

Suddenly my arms and legs feel heavy. With so many non-stop movements my energy bar is depleted.

The warrior raises his greatsword and throws a full-force blow aimed at my neck. I see it perfectly, I foresee it, but my body does not respond. I am exhausted. He cuts off my head, which falls and rolls to his feet.