The staff behind the reception desk greeted Satou politely; but when with a smile he told him the cost:

“Two-fifty a night?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Satou made no hesitation to excuse himself and leave.

Two-fifty a night! Just as he’d suspected: Mariotte Hotel were not for the likes of him!

Not even five minutes in and he was out—five minutes and two hours seemed too much of his precious daylight spent on just looking for this one place: Mariotte Hotel.

He asked the doorman as he was coming out what the time was: “Excuse me, yes—the time? Thank you.” Half-past six, he was told. He had hoped to romp around the city if he still had time left, explore 4^th avenue once he had briefly inspected the room he would be staying in—or so he had daydreamed, at least, on his way here. Given his pace so far, there seemed little chance for it. Was it always this hard looking a hotel in the olden days, before gps or the internet?

His stomach grumbled.

No problem, he thought. I still have the whole night ahead of me. One thing at a time. First things first: he was hungry. He wanted to go get something to eat, and he might as well before he got back to work. Fortunately for him, his eyes didn’t have to wander far from where he stood as 4^th Avenue seemed home to plenty of catering services.

Following the sidewalk, storefront to storefront he began to peer in through display windows, trying to find one that suited his whims best, and soon he entered one, a promising-looking homely bakery, whose doors led him in to bathe him in a warm aroma of sweet yeast and freshly baked breads. But even here, the pangs of a miser were not to leave him.

He read the prices on the pies, the pastries, the wafers, the biscuits, the cakes, and the baskets of cookies, and he frowned.

Does everything in this city cost too much, or am I just poor?

He ordered the cheapest one they had on an offer: a plain white sandwich at half-price. He handed a note over the display fridge, worth a hundred. A lady in white, black apron tied round her waist, came over and slid his money away.

Arms crossed, Satou listless stared at his soon-to-be evening meal, fully expecting to see it taken out of its tray any minute. Instead, with a thump his money came back.

“Ma’am, you’ve given me riyals.”

“…Pardon?”

“You’ve given me riyals, ma’am. Entis’ currency? You have to pay in ducats.”

At first he didn’t quite understand her; but then slowly it began to dawn on him what she meant: he had a wrong currency. But why? Why did he have riyals on him and not ducats? This, too, began to set in. He was never meant to be here, was he? No, definitely not. Not today, not tonight, but on board that—train. Little wonder then, why all of his notes were so—fresh.

This was not good. This was not good at all.

Forget the hotel, if he didn’t have ducats, wasn’t he effectively broke? As he slid his riyals back, he saw his journey stretch on deep into the night. Vaguely, he saw his outcome, if he failed; but answers… None came…

“Do you, not have it?”

Only now, when the lady airily ask this, did Satou look up, and remember where he was—in  public—that he wasn’t alone here, that the lady behind the display counter was still waiting for him to pay up, and that she also happened to have a direct line of sight as to the content of his wallet.

“I-ah, brought my wrong wallet.” He lied. He felt wrong to do it, but also forced. Yet fortuitously, it gave him both an excuse and the courage to ask her frankly: “Would you, happen to know where I could exchange them?”

“You mean, a bank?”

A bank, of course! Where else would you exchange currencies! His grateful lampooning wasn’t directed towards her, of course, but at himself. It wasn’t sarcasm, because having in the spur of the moment been completely lost as to what he could do next—‘bank’ to him had shone as his saving grace: a genuine insight he might’ve never figured out on his own.

“Yes,” Satou exclaimed. A tone louder and glances might’ve fell on him. “Is there one nearby?”

The lady smiled apologetically. She shook her head. No, she didn’t know.

But at least now he knew what he ought to do next.

With an empty stomach, empty-handed, he left the bakery, and noticed on his skin, on his face, and on the back of his neck just how the world outside had gotten perceptibly colder—or maybe not. No, it was probably just the bakery that had been warm inside. But the evening had deepened, surely, and nightfall seemed just around the corner.

Let’s hope I make it in time…

At an intersection, he waited for his turn to cross the road. Streetcars grazed past him just a stride ahead. A tramcar came gonging along, which, distant yet heavy, brought to his groggy state of mind the warm and misty cabin of the Aureate Express. Therein, he saw the city outside, in the night; and him, rocking along, like a cradle song. If only he had not wasted so much time sitting and doing nothing, had just checked himself sooner, found the wallet, found the ticket… Alas…

Drowsiness hit him hard. When he closed his eyes he thought he was swaying. He yawned with a fist covered over his mouth, and his ears rang sharply when the constable manning the traffic blew all the air he had in his lungs into his whistle.

Satou went on, from 4^th avenue to the 5^th, looking for the nearest bank.

Supposedly there was one nearby—or so people told him; but when he got there, he didn’t find it.

Did I take a wrong turn? He very well could’ve.

He loitered around 5^th avenue for awhile—through the barren alleyways and the darkly lit bystreets where streetlamps had yet to come on—longer that he probably should have; and not finding it, asked a lady nearby: a florist who had just locked the doors to her shop, where this bank was.

“Why, go down that way then take a right, you should see it. But you needn’t bother, dear. it’s closed.”

It never is simple, is it…

Dejected by failure, he brooded over what he should do next, when suddenly what seemed like a brilliant idea struck him.

Tentatively, he asked to the florist if she was willing to exchange some of her ducats with him for his riyals, since, as he told her: he had none, he needed some urgently, and that he would owe her great deal for it if she could spare him some of her change. “I’ll repay you, of course. Maybe even by tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry dear, but, what do you suppose I do with your riyals? I have no use for it.”

“I—” Satou realized that he had nothing to say to that; nothing, except her pity as his bargain, and that it was a hopeless cause if she didn’t want to help him. Yet fortuitously, his sudden despondent pause must’ve done something, because the florist’s motherly plump face softened under sympathy, and she reconsidered: “Well, I suppose I could… How much?”

“A hundred riyals, if it’s alright with you.”

“A hundred?”

“Yes,”

“If you took me well off then I’m sorry to disappoint. Five, girl, is all I have. Take it or leave it.”

“I—well—look…” Satou pulled out his wallet from his back pocket and showed it to her. “All I have are in hundreds—see?”

The florist leaned over and peered in. Her eyes grew in surprise. “Might I ask why you are carrying so much sum?”

“I,”

“No, nevermind that! Rude of me prod. But a hundred—I’m sorry, dear. I would love to help; really, I do. But even if could,”

Understandable, Satou thought. Guess it’s still to the banks after all. He wasn’t too dismayed by this though. It had always been a shot in the dark, but a shot he had to take; and for that, at least he had learned that he wasn’t poor. Just, neutered…

“Besides,” apparently she wasn’t done. “Even if you could find someone willing. Taking-handing so much sum. It’s no crime, no; but it’s dubious, won’t you say so? There are better ways of going about these thing; proper ways,”

“I’ll keep that in mind…”

“And—”

“Is there a problem here?” Someone interrupted her—a man’s voice.

“O’ everything’s quite alright, officer,” the florist answered. “The young lady here wanted to know her way to the bank.”

“It’s closed, I’ve been told,” Satou added.

“If you mean that one over there,” the  officer vaguely pointed somewhere behind himself. “We had to shut it for the day. Terribly sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Why, something happen officer?” The florist asked.

The officer gave her a humorous smile. “No, nothing at all, in fact. That’s why it has been a nightmare; for us lot, that is.” Then he turned towards Satou, met eyes, and leaning slightly with a genial smile said to him: “You were trying to get to a bank, miss? It’s a bit far, this one. Maybe I could drive you there.”

Satou did not immediately reply, awfully quiet. On first impressions, he felt a little trepid of this man, whose attire reminded him of the secret police, though the man himself was being quite affable; or at the thought of accepting such hospitality. Hitchhiking with a stranger—he had never really done it before; nothing came close to it. But the florist had called him an ‘officer’. Did he really have a reason to be wary of someone from the law? No, not really. On the contrary, he would be safer. Thus, he decided: “We can set off right away,”

“Great!” The officer exclaimed.

“I should be on my way as well,” the florist added. “Time flies, does it not? Take care, you two. Especially you, lass.”

The three of them parted ways. Satou obediently followed the officer. The two of them passed by the bank Satou had been looking for, which indeed, as he saw now, was closed.

“Is it far?” Satou asked him.

“Hmm? No, not that far. Ten, fifteen minutes. I could get you there in five, if you’re in a hurry.”

Satou smiled. “Ten is fine,”

After the bank, it’s back to looking for a hotel. The officer could give him pointers for that. If all goes well, he could hope to be snugly settled in a room before midnight, or even dinnertime. Here’s to hoping, anyways. Everything was coming together like a puzzle solved, at least in his mind; but whether it would go in the same way in reality, he could only cast his hopes ahead.

“That’s our car.”

At the end of where the officer’s outstretched arm pointed, Satou found a black car parked at the other side of the road. Shaped like a beetle, it reminded him of the sort of cars one would see driven around in noir films. The windows were slightly thicker than usual, which gave it an air of being armored or heavier than it probably was.

The officer opened the backseat car door for him—

“Thank you,”

—and closed it once he got in.

Faint whiffs of tobacco wafted by as soon as Satou settled down. He felt a little queer to be treated so gentlemanly, almost like a lady. He wasn’t sure how he ought to feel about it. It made him self-conscious: Do I sit with my legs folded or no? But what concern was it of his spectator who was to have his eyes set on the road and not him?

The officer got in, and the car started up without much of a noise or a hitch, and it ran smoother than what one would’ve expected something so vintage-looking to run. It wouldn’t lose to my mom’s Audi. There was also what looked to be a radio in the car, with analog dials and a meter inbetween, but the officer did not turn it on, much to his passenger’s disappointment.

Only now, while the officer had his eyes set on the road, did Satou find it appropriate to get a better look at his host: who looked quite young to be an officer, if he was any judge—probably in his early-20s—the same as him then; and without his service cap on, he looked much less intimidating; though a slight militaristic cast was still on him from his whole apparel.

A brief congestion at a checkpoint slowed them down to a halt; but unlike the other cars, they weren’t halted there for long, if at all. The constable on-duty, when he saw just who sat behind the wheels, raised his hand to a quick yet firm salute. The uniform had served as their passport, and the officer returned the honors likewise, but did so languidly and without much of the same zeal.

“All’s good. Forward!” The constable shouted, and they were off.

Satou, witness to it all, was left a little puzzled by what had just transpired. His interest was piqued. It was one thing to let them pass, but another entirely to also express respect. He began to wonder to himself if there had been any sincerity behind it, or if the constable had done so out of convention’s sake.

When the checkpoint vanished behind a curve, Satou asked him: “What do you do, officer?” and immediately regretted it, or regretted having phrased it that way because he realized only too late that he very well could be asked the same in turn.

The officer gave him a sidelong glance, then began enigmatically: “ISB-C,” He flipped his coat flap aside, revealing a silver badge hooked to his belt. Above it, a service revolver in its holster. “Crisis Control Bureau. I was a sleuth before that.”

“Must be nice,” Satou remarked, shifting in his seat, leaning imperceptibly closer, hoping he would learn more.

“It’s hard work.”

“What sort?”

“Cultists. Demons. Those sort.”

Eyes met in the rearview mirror, and Satou returned a non-committal smile, unsure if the officer was telling the truth or just playing with him. Feeling awkward, he leaned his head back and watched nothing in particular outside. A haze of affluent businesses and residential buildings fleeted past him, but with his mind entirely elsewhere, Satou saw none of it.

Ten, fifteen minutes later, the bank finally came into view beyond a sharp turn.

Looks like a parliament building, Satou thought. “Thank you for the lift,” he said.

“Not yet. I’ll drop you off to the front. What did you want to do here anyways, if I might ask?”

“Exchange riyals.”

“I see,” the officer nodded. “You aren’t from Ednin.” The tone of it: It wasn’t a statement, but a question.

Satou wasn’t sure how to answer it. Was he or was he not from Ednin? He didn’t know, of course. ‘Perhaps, perhaps not.’ was his answer—but he didn’t want to come off as sly. So he said instead: “What do you think, officer?” which to him seemed a more neutral non-answer at first; but as soon as those words left the tip of his tongue, he realized, only too late, just how much they rang of affirmation, and how, since he was wielding a voice he wasn’t familiar using, that he had also come off slightly haughty, femme fatale even. He hoped it was just him overthinking this.

“I should think you aren’t,” the officer said. “Your accent.”

So people could tell, Satou thought. Or at least a sleuth can. And here he thought he was doing so well. The body remembered what he did not even know. His pronunciation had so far been impeccable, at least so far as he could tell; then was it his phrasing that was a bit clunky, in need of work? Was that it?

The car grinded to a halt next to the curb.

Satou got out and shut the door behind him, when suddenly he remembered: “Er, will you be leaving, or waiting?”

“Would you like me to wait, miss?”

“Yes. I’m sorry for the bother.”

“Not at all, I asked to help. Take as long as you need.”

“That’s true. I’ll be quick then,”

The bank when he entered it did not disgrace its outside. It was expansive, not to mention distant, and cold. The lofty domed hall echoed with hushed voices, and Satou briskly made his way up to the counter that had the shortest queue. When his turn came, he told the clerk why he was here. The clerk in turn asked him if he was registered to the bank. He told him no. The clerk then asked him for his papers.

“My papers?”

“Yes, your identification papers.”

Apparently, it was something he needed to show if he wanted to exchange currencies at a bank. In hindsight, this should’ve been obvious; but then again, he wasn’t worldly. Such mistakes were bound to happen to him; but the fact that it had to happen to him here, when he could not afford any more setbacks, was more than disheartening.

“I don’t, have it on me,” he confessed.

The bespectacled clerk looked up from his paperwork, scrutiny in his eyes under which Satou felt his pride take a hit. “Then I’m sorry, miss. But I can’t help you otherwise.” In the face of clear-cut regulations, what more room were there for words? He didn’t know what else to say. Dejected, he turned on his heels and obediently left the bank.

Outside, as he made his descent, the officer hailed him from the other side of the road with a friendly wave. He was leaning on the side of his car, pulling out a cigarette case from under his coat. “You were done quick,” the officer greeted him, once he got close. “Would you like one?”

Cigarettes? He could use one right about now; except, he had never really smoked before. “No, but thank you.”

“Where would you like me to take you next, miss?” The officer asked him very formally; but in this context, it was mock.

Satou did not share his humor though; he couldn’t. He said nothing, awfully quiet. Inwardly, he struggled over whether he should confide or not, since, as far as he could tell, he had run out of options. “Well… about that,” So he told him. Once he made sure that they wouldn’t be overheard, he told the officer what had happened to him in the bank but with a yarn spun: of how he hadn’t been able to exchange his riyals because he had misplaced his identifications papers. That—

The officer lit his cigarette loosely hanging from his lips, not with a lighter, but with a flick of his fingertips.

Satou almost slurred on his words when he saw it.

Right in front of him, as though what he had just done was something trivial, commonplace, nothing to be impressed about or worth even to mention—the officer had conjured up a flame out of thin air!

The office raised his eyes, noticing the sudden silence. Now Satou noticed it too. He tried to go on, but what he had meant to say—What had he meant to say? He had forgotten it. “Well, that’s how it is. I thought I had it on me, then,”

“It wasn’t.”

“Yes.”

The officer returned his cigarette, still unlit, back in its case, and the case back in his coat-pocket. “You got yourself in some trouble there,” he said. “It’s a serious offense, losing your papers, that is, if you are a foreigner. I assume you are. You could get yourself a temporary one at the consulate, of course, but that would do you no good with the banks. They don’t accept those.”

“You said—a serious offense?”

“If you are a foreigner.” The officer pointed out the important detail. “Jail time. But it won’t go that far with you, I highly doubt it. It will however cost you one hefty fine: five hundred ducats, which isn’t to include what it would cost you to get a replacement; and, well, the paperwork is… How should I put it. It could take you up to a week, or five minutes.”

The talk about costs suddenly reminded Satou of why he had come here in the first place.

“About the fine… I had this other trouble,”

“Before that, do you remember when you last had it?”

“Ah-I… My identification papers?”

“yes, that’s right.”

“…” Satou did the only thing he could do. He guessed. “…King’s Crossing? I’m not so sure at all, officer.”

“When was this?”

“Midday, I should think.”

“Not too late. Not too late at all.”

“…So,”

“I can help you, certainly. I reckon I could have your papers back by… tomorrow noon. Will that be alright?”

“Sure,”

“How should I contact you? Are you staying at a hotel?”

“No, I haven’t decided, yet. I still have to look for a place to stay.”

“Why, this late?”

“Unfortunately,” Satou let out a wry laugh, feeling abashed. “It’s been a busy day.”

The officer smiled, sympathetic. “Well, I shall find you anyhow.” How he meant to do this, or how he meant to find his papers, Satou didn’t try and ask. Instead: “About my, other trouble, I mentioned earlier.”

The officer waited, shifting the leg he was leaning on as he waited for Satou to go on.

“You see—I don’t have any ducats on me.”

The officer nodded. Then: “You lost your wallet.”

“No! No! I—It’s better if I show it to you.” As he had done so with the florist, Satou took out his wallet from his back-pocket and laid its contents bare. “Riyals—all. It’s why I came here. To exchange them, I,”

His stammer was met with an amused smile. “Tell me what happened, from the start.”

And so Satou did. He paused first, to catch his breath, then in a fit of volubility began to recount the journey he had toiled so far, patiently, still, with a yarn spun: of how he had missed the train he was meant to board, had then gone on to book a hotel, only to realize as he was about to pay for a room, that earlier that day he had exchanged all of his ducats for riyals, sending him back out to look for a bank, only to find it then closed, till here he was, having met him, talking to him. All this Satou recounted to the officer, but he kept it as vague as he could so that nothing would come back to bite him—

—But bite him back it did.

“Mariotte Hotel? Do they have qualms with taking riyals now?”

Hotels, especially established ones, accepting foreign currencies as payment—I could’ve done that this whole time?!—Like a headless chicken, had he been running around the city for hours on end, so distraught, in such a hurry, when he could’ve simply gone back and paid for a room all this time?! “I, might’ve been too hasty to leave. I didn’t get so far as to pay, and,”

The officer chuckled. He seemed amused. “Excuse me, I was being facetious. I didn’t mean anything by it. You wouldn’t know it, I suppose, but Mr. Wilbur, the fifty-one year old magnate who happens to own Mariotte Hotel has been very outspoken about his views in the press, that… Well, to cut the matter short: Mr. Wilbur is someone whom you would call a staunch secessionist. When the government a few months prior decided to adopt the view that Ednin should forego a medley of things that had to do with our sibling to our west—such as to cede all domestic use of riyals entirely—Mr. Wilbur made himself quite the public figure for a comment of his on the matter. Which is to say he was satirized to no end for it.”

“That’s,” Satou had lost the officer somewhere in the middle; but what he did catch was that the use of riyals was banned in Ednin; which is to say—if this was of any solace—that he hadn’t entirely wasted his time looking for a bank. “Sorry, but—sibling?”

“Entis. The Holy Entis Empire.”

“Ah,” The land of riyals. Sounds like a theocracy.

“We’ve gotten off-track,” the officer brought up.

“Ah-yes, yes we have.”

“Anyhow, I’m glad to hear the bank rejected you.”

“Wh-why?”

“Because, miss, you would’ve been robbed in broad daylight. It might come as news to you, since the tax levied on the exchange of ducats to riyals isn’t much, if at all; but the other way round is another matter. A hundred riyals—It would’ve been…”

“Is it, much?”

“…Yes… Yes, it is. You’ll have to ask someone else for the exact rates, it escapes me at the moment, but it was something exorbitant, no matter how kindly you tried to put it. It was meant to be, you see. It’s also nothing new under the sun.” He waved his hand in front of him, as if to brush the whole subject aside. “I’m sure everything will go back to how it was.”

As for what was of import to Satou: if the rates were really that high, high enough to be labeled ‘exorbitant’, then it made sense why the florist had been suspicious of him. Did she think I was trying to avoid this tax cut? ”And you, officer? What about you? What do you think about Entis?”

The officer shone him a knowing smile. “I try to keep my views domestic, miss. In my line of work, the less geopolitics the better.” Then, changing the topic: “As for your money issue, I have thought of something. I suggest you keep your riyals with you for the time being. Meanwhile, I’m sure His Majesty’s Government will be more than willing to lend you a hand. If it isn’t much to ask, I’ll have to ask you to come with me to the station to sign some IOUs. Make sure to repay the ducats we’ll be lending you once you’re less broke.”

Suddenly, there it was—Hope! Salvation! “Thank you,” Habit almost came over him and Satou nearly bowed; but he caught himself just, realizing how far from the norm it would’ve seemed to the officer.

“That resolves that. Anything else?”

“…” Satou gave it some thought. “I think, that’s all of it. Other than that I’m quite hungry, and also parched. Do you happen to have a bottle of water in the car, officer?”

The latter smiled, amused. “Might I propose something better?”

“Please,”

“It seems we’ll be together for some time.”

“Seems that way.”

“You don’t have any other plans for tonight do you?”

“No, I—sightsee, maybe, if there’s still some time left.”

“Then how about we do this? Let’s get this issue of yours sorted out first. Then afterwards, to call it even,”—Here, a tactful pause, for dramatic effect—“Perhaps you could let me take you out for a dinner as well—the two of us?”

He’ll even treat me, Satou felt grateful; but then, Is he…

Satou felt his body flare up in heat—heat that crawled underneath his skin.

“I, dinner? Well, that’s,” His voice all of a sudden sounded strangled, unnaturally deep, as though it were taking him great effort to both think and speak at the same time. “I can’t be, spending, much, as you know, since, I’ll be on borrowed money, and all that… Besides,”

The officer interrupted him with a quip. “And why should the lady pay?” He had meant it rhetorically, but when Satou did not answer and only dumbly stared back, a prolonged silence ensued itself for a few seconds. This was also the first time Satou had look at the officer straight in the eyes, and also for so long.

The officer let out a restrained chuckle to hide himself blush.

Satou felt his chest tighten with dread and apprehension when he saw it.

“Anyhow,” the officer continued. “I wanted to take you out to Café Angelas—perhaps you’ve heard of it? I’m sure you’ll like it, and, ah—all this time, we haven’t even introduced ourselves I realized.”

“Enza,” Of all the names he could’ve used, why did he utter that?

“A lovely name… Alec.” The officer let his hand hang.

Satou reached for it—took it—and he shook it awkwardly, like someone who had never shaken hands before.

Only now did it dawn that the officer had been wooing him. Only now did he see what the officer had seen:

A young woman, a foreigner, lovely and demure, shaking hands with him, a damsel in distress for whom he was more than willing to play knight-errant for. He had asked her out for dinner, the night was still young, they would have plenty of time still to get well-acquainted with, and him to impress her further. And then what? What next? What came afterwards?

Satou felt the ground beneath his feet slipping away.

The officer held the car door open for him to enter. “Shall we, Enza?”

To hear that name be uttered made his blood run cold.

He set his white face on the officer, revealing no warmth, no recognition, as though he were looking at a stranger.

Satou did not move. Instead, he stood there tongue-tied, petrified, far away; and felt himself sink deeper and deeper to someplace he would deeply regret to be in. He had to refuse! He knew he had to refuse! Do, something—draw a border right then and there! But a part of him seemed already resigned to its fate: to let whatever happen happen and pray that it did not.

When he saw the officer about to say something—perhaps ask him if he was feeling alright—it was all too much for him.

Satou spoke up at the same time: “Excuse–me–” His voice, so faint, trailed off to a whisper halfway: a feeble attempt, perhaps, at a confused apology, an excuse, a plea. He did not dare look back. He felt eyes burrow on the back of his neck. His heart raced violently. The most distance he made, the more he began to grow afraid—afraid that the officer would call him back, grow bold enough to catch up to him and grab him by the hand.

What would he do if the officer caught up to him and grabbed him by the hand?

Satou realized with dread that he would do nothing; that he would freeze, and stand there like some helpless prey.

He braced himself for the worst. Nothing happened.

Soon he was alone; but the eyes on the back of his neck did not leave him for a very long time.

Farther and farther into the city he wandered on, aimless and soon lost, until night fell over him for good, and only then, when the city began to grow quiet, did the whole extent of what he just done finally dawn on him.

He wished he were dead.