POTLS - Chapter 9: Death Wish

Paul stepped into the cramped one-bedroom apartment, cluttered with unwashed clothes and file folders brought home by Michael.

"I can't believe Elaine could stand this mess," Paul teased the man still sitting at his desk with his back turned.

"We broke up," Michael replied indifferently, his tone neither high nor low, still focused on his laptop screen.

"Oh," Paul grimaced, realizing he'd touched on his friend's pain.

Hearing tapping on the bedroom window, Paul went inside to escape his blunder.

Momo, a mourning dove, was pecking intermittently at the window, which was as cluttered as the living room. Michael's apartment faced two streets—the main road and an alley. With just a little airing out, the place could have been filled with life, but Michael refused due to his busy schedule.

Paul grabbed a bag of dried corn kernels from the vanity that Michael's girlfriend used to use, now empty. He approached the window and pushed it up. Upon seeing him, Momo flew away, abandoning the nest built inside an ice cream container left by the couple after a passionate night.

Michael had always possessed a magnetism that attracted not just people but animals as well. He had placed a broom beside the window to shelter Momo from rain. Since then, the mourning dove had returned regularly to perch by the window ledge, displacing the herbs like mint and thyme that Michael grew.

The bird was named Momo, short for "Mourningly Mourn." It had cried soulfully when they first met, with Paul present. The bird seemed to be recounting its grievances and sorrows to Michael. Moved with compassion, Michael had even redesigned things to give Momo a place to stay.

And Momo always hated Paul. Evidence lay in the fact that it only returned after he poured out the corn kernels and closed the window again.

Paul exhaled sharply, tapping on the glass to announce his continued presence.

Momo turned its head, using its beak to tap back as if to say: "Get lost, asshole."

Paul raised his hands in surrender and left the room.

Michael had left his desk and was sitting on the couch in the corner, holding two bottles of beer.

Paul walked over, took the bottle his friend offered, and slumped down. The exhaustion finally hit him full force. Six days of life-and-death struggle. Returning only to run back and forth because of those bastards. He drank deeply, gulping down the beer.

Seeing the sadness in his friend's eyes and the barely touched beer in his hand, Paul spoke up.

"Why did you two break up?"

Michael ran his fingers through his long, messy brown hair, revealing a well-defined jaw and gentle eyes that always carried hints of unspoken troubles.

"Just like you said," Michael shook his head. "I'm too messy and I neglect too many things."

"I've never heard Elaine complain about that," Paul frowned.

"Maybe she loved me too much and suffered in silence," Michael shrugged, taking a sip of beer. "When it became too much, she exploded. Couldn't take it anymore."

Nodding, Paul clinked bottles with his equally tired friend.

He believed one reason for the breakup was himself—a street urchin involved with the criminal underworld. Like David, Michael had a promising career. Elaine's feminine intuition had always been wary of the friend who frequently visited their small apartment. She feared that one day Paul would bring trouble to Michael.

But Michael chose Paul because of the brotherly bond they shared.

"Remember the day we first met?" Paul changed the subject, breaking into a grin.

"How could I forget?" Michael leaned back, eyes brimming with nostalgia. "Two kids surrounded by a gang of bullies."

"I remember taking down three of them, while you only managed two."

"Don't get it twisted," Michael pouted. "If I hadn't punched fat Jeff and made his nose bleed, you wouldn't have had the chance to knock him down. Remember, he was heavy enough to crush both of us."

"You talk as if you weren't the same—those two guys you took down? Only happened because I kicked them in the balls first, giving you the opening."

The two pointed and gestured wildly, recounting a story from years ago with self-aggrandizing details. In the midst of their excitement, Paul tilted his head, his expression turning serious.

"Why are we talking about this stuff? We don't usually get this emotional."

Paul chuckled, nearly choking on his beer.

They both had similar origins—mothers who had died from overdoses. That was also why, despite their harsh lives, they had kept themselves away from addiction. Michael had been luckier, still having his father until the man died from an epidemic.

Two somber children, covered in wounds, had stayed together until now.

"Paul," Michael's voice hardened. "Don't even think about saying goodbye. You have to come back, understand? Why did that damn system choose you anyway?"

"I have a plan," Paul murmured vaguely.

"Having a plan is good," Michael nodded, standing to get more beer.

When he returned, he continued.

"I don't need to know what your plan is, but you have to try harder. Alright? I've dealt with these issues at work too many times and I'm scared now."

Michael belonged to the Crisis Management Unit created by the city government. The unit had various responsibilities. Michael's job involved handling paperwork and documents related to Survivors, working closely with hospitals to create reports that helped secure funding from various sources.

The stipend Paul received was partly thanks to Michael's team's efforts, meager as it was to the point of being laughable.

"Alright, alright," Paul said, trying to dispel the heavy mood. "To celebrate your return to single life, I'll treat you tonight. How about that?"

"No way," Michael frowned. "How much money do you even have?"

"I'm using money from trading Portal items from my previous two runs. I should spend it, right?"

Michael's lip twitched; he wanted to scold Paul but decided against it. Paul had too many challenges ahead.

Gold exchanges between players incurred a fee due to imperfect artifacts, wasting 20%. So a workaround had developed: trading items purchased from the store. Potions were the most sought-after. This created an imbalance among survivors. Those with family wealth or assets could navigate Portals much more easily.

The current exchange rate was one hundred dollars for one gold. With a Stamina Potion worth 100 gold, Paul could exchange it for ten thousand dollars. Consequently, those predatory hawks paid more attention to gold-rich survivors. Essence-rich but gold-poor survivors like him weren't prioritized.

Paul had secretly sent most of that money to the families of David, Kate, and Lina, keeping just over a thousand for himself. That was more than enough for him—in fact, it was the most money he'd ever had in his account.

As Michael suggested, Paul had, in some unconscious way, prepared for his own funeral. Accidents could always happen inside Portals, and humans were poor at rational thinking, always focusing on small odds rather than large ones. If something could happen, it would happen. For Paul, this held especially true, as he had indeed screwed up many things.

They ordered a feast of pizza and Chinese food, along with another pack of beer, and put on a movie mainly to create background noise for the room.

"You're really putting me in a difficult position," Michael finally said after getting tipsy. "What is this? What the fuck is this? Should I throw a party to wish you safe travels? Or hold a funeral for someone about to die? Huh?"

"Come on, calm down, my friend," Paul placed a hand on Michael's shoulder, his head slightly dizzy.

"Fuck calm. Fuck you. You should never have come here today, do you understand? At least that way you'd try harder knowing you hadn't said goodbye. But now? Now if you lie down covered in wounds, you won't try as hard because you'll think you've completed everything. That you have no more loose ends. Goddammit, Paul! What were you thinking coming to find me? Do you think I don't know about the money you transferred to those families? The government pays special attention to you guys, so fuck privacy, you know?"

Paul smiled at his friend's reaction. Those red eyes struggling to hold back tears made him chuckle with a small happiness. He didn't explain to Michael that just those words alone had already fueled his motivation to survive.

He still had revenge to take, still had to return because someone cared.

Life was shitty, yes, but it stank a lot less thanks to Michael. At the very least, Paul believed he would fight more fiercely than ever before.

Michael kept grumbling until he finally collapsed from exhaustion and fell asleep. Paul carried his friend to the bedroom and laid him on the bed under Momo's accusatory gaze for making its owner sad.

Paul returned to the living room, continuing to sip his beer, eyes fixed on the night sky, the silence occasionally broken by an impatient driver's horn.

This kind of life was enough for him. But he couldn't afford to be slow. The longer he waited, the easier it would be for the Crouching Tiger to find him.

No need to wait two weeks or a month—next week he would return to the Portal, staking his final life on the future.