From the other side of the Veil

— I'm not from around here, — Malcolm repeated, lowering his voice, trying to appear calmer than he felt. His new, delicate hands, folded on the bar counter, betrayed a barely controlled tremor.

The bartender, an elderly woman in a leather vest, snorted and continued polishing her tenth mug of the evening. The stained glass lamps illuminated her calloused hands and cast reflections on the rough skin of her fingers.

— I know, — she replied curtly, raising an eyebrow and looking Malcolm up and down. — We get plenty like you here. Refugees from the other side of the Veil.

Malcolm swallowed hard. He was already used to being seen as yet another “guest.” The body he found himself in looked about twenty: a young, slender redheaded girl with expressive eyes and a fragile silhouette. An innocent appearance, almost pitiful. He knew that instead of his familiar body, he now had something entirely different—a narrow waist, a weight on his chest, hips too round. It was hard to stay serious and convincing in such a form.

— Listen, I... I just need to figure out how to get back. You know... back! — He leaned in a little closer, feeling the unfamiliar weight of his chest pressing against his ribcage. Everything was foreign, clumsy, as if he was wearing a poorly tailored suit.

The bartender smirked, leaning against the counter and inclining slightly forward.

— Back? To your “manly” body, right? — She gestured with her fingers, as if weighing his words in her palm. — Don’t bother, sweetheart. The local women weren’t always the way you see them now, either. And those in these bodies, — she nodded towards a group of women at the far end of the bar whispering to some sailors, — they’ll make sure of that.

Malcolm felt a chill run down his spine. He shifted his gaze to the women, clearly prostitutes, who laughed quietly among themselves. Three brightly dressed girls in short skirts and high boots stood there, catching the eye of every passing man.

— Are they… like me? — he whispered, staring at their smiling faces. One of the women, a tall blonde with sleek, almost white hair, met his gaze and, squinting, slowly ran a finger across her neck, mimicking a throat-cutting gesture. Malcolm flinched.

— Some of them, yes, — the bartender continued, noting his reaction. — It’ll be easier if you stop trying to think you can change anything, darling, — she added with a cold smirk, slowly placing the mug on the shelf.

Malcolm licked his dry lips, trying to steady his shaking hands. Just two days ago, he had been an ordinary locksmith from our world, a middle-aged man, and then somehow ended up here… in this strange place and in this body. It looked like the world he knew, but as if someone had added bits and pieces from various fantasy novels. “The Veil,” “The Guild”—he knew he’d landed in some parallel world, but… how? Why?

— What is this place? — he growled. — And why… why do I look like this?! — The question burst out of him unexpectedly, louder than he’d intended. He almost slammed his fists on the bar counter, but instead of a strong blow, he felt how weak, feminine fingers merely flopped pathetically against the wood, producing no effect at all.

The bartender burst out laughing, her laughter ringing through the hall, low and hoarse, drawing the attention of several men at the nearby table. They glanced at Malcolm with interest, their eyes sweeping over his slender form. Yet he noticed something in her laughter… something familiar? And then it hit him!

— You were like me, too, weren’t you? — he dared to ask, locking his gaze onto the bartender.

— Maybe, — she drawled, smirking crookedly. — Or maybe not. What the hell does it matter now? You think you’ll wake up one day, and everything will go back to normal? Ha! — her laugh was short and sharp, almost painful. — Most of us tried… until we realized it’s easier to adapt.

— Adapt?! — Malcolm exploded, leaning forward so abruptly he nearly fell off the stool. His chest bounced unpleasantly, making him wince. — I’m not going to accept this! I’m not some… some…

— A doll? — the bartender suggested with an icy smile, looking at him from under her brow. — A girl? Poor, lost little thing? I’ve seen dozens like you. They come in, burning with rage, and either get lost or accept their new roles, tucking their tails between their legs, trying to find something worth living for. Or they stay here, — her gaze shifted back to the corner where the group of girls stood. — Become goods for the likes of him, — she nodded towards a bearded man in a dusty coat who was roughly pulling one of the prostitutes onto his lap.

Malcolm felt a mix of anger and panic boil up inside him. It was unbearable. He couldn’t just give up and surrender, as she suggested! He had to find a way to get back—at any cost.

— And what about you? — he asked sharply, not breaking eye contact. — Why didn’t you run? Why just work here and…

The bartender froze, pressing her lips into a thin line. Then she slowly leaned in, her face almost touching his, and whispered:

— I made my choice. Remember that, sweetheart. Choice is all you have, until it’s taken away. Decide what you’re going to do, but decide quickly, — her gaze suddenly softened, almost regretful. — Or you’ll become one of them before you even realize it.

A loud burst of laughter rang out, and one of the girls at the far end—the same blonde who had threateningly drawn her finger across her throat—slipped free from the grip of her latest suitor and strode towards the bar. Her step was confident, her posture impeccable. She looked entirely different from the others. There was something dangerous in her movements… and familiar. As if she didn’t belong here either.

— Hey, Greta, pour me something stronger, — the blonde’s low, velvety voice shattered the tense silence between Malcolm and the bartender. She came closer, ignoring the appraising looks behind her. Her bright red lips curled into a mocking smile as her gaze settled on Malcolm. — Oh, who do we have here? A new girl, huh?

— None of your business, — Greta snapped. — Go entertain your clients before they get bored.

The blonde merely snorted, her long, manicured fingers, tipped with crimson nails, gliding easily over the polished wood of the counter. Malcolm felt her gaze pierce into him, like an icy blade.

— Ah, Greta, you know I like getting to know the newcomers, — the blonde leaned closer, her face now level with Malcolm’s. She sniffed, like a predator sizing up its prey. — Especially the… naive ones, — she purred the last words with a light, almost taunting sneer.

Malcolm recoiled, feeling everything inside him tighten into a knot. Something about her seemed eerily familiar. As if she knew his secret, his weakness. His heart was pounding so hard, he feared it might burst out of his chest.

— Leave her, Laura, — Greta’s voice turned icy again. — She doesn’t need your games.

Laura? Malcolm latched onto the name, trying to make sense of what was happening. But before he could ask, the blonde stepped back and shrugged, as if casually agreeing.

— Well, as you wish, Greta. But you should teach her some manners if you want her to survive until morning, — her eyes flashed with a sinister gleam, but she turned back towards her table, leaving them alone.

Malcolm clenched his fists, feeling a strange mix of relief and confusion. What was that? Who was she?

— Who… is she? — he turned to the bartender, trying to steady his voice.

— Laura, — Greta snorted, sinking onto a stool behind the counter. — One of those who long ago accepted her fate. There are plenty like her here. They resist at first, but then… become something much worse. Did you see how she looked at you? She likes newcomers like you—unbroken ones. She loves playing with others’ hopes, just to crush them.

— But… why? — Malcolm whispered. — Why doesn’t she help? If we… if we’re all from the same place?

The bartender slowly looked up at him, her face twisted in a strange mixture of pity and sadness.

— Because not everyone wants to go back, sweetheart. Not everyone wants to be who they used to be. Some find… a new pleasure in this, — she looked with disgust in Laura’s direction, who was already wrapping herself around another client, hugging his shoulders. — And they don’t want anyone reminding them of who they once were. They’ve forgotten who they really are. And they’ll do everything to make you forget, too.

— I… I’ll never forget, — Malcolm managed to say, trying to convince not only her but himself as well.

Greta didn’t reply. She just sighed heavily and picked up another mug.

— You know, a lot of people say that. But it’s different here than in your world, sweetheart. You’re trapped here—the longer you stay, the more you lose yourself. First, your body changes. Then your voice. And then… then comes your mind. This city absorbs you like quicksand. And the more you fight, the deeper it pulls you. Laura is what happens when you get lost. She’s not who she was anymore. There’s no way back for her.

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the despair freeze everything inside. He didn’t want to become like Laura. He didn’t want to forget who he was. But how long could he keep fighting? Greta was right—the more he resisted, the weaker he felt.

— But there has to be a way, — he said, barely holding back his panic. — Someone must know how to get out of here!

The bartender looked up at him. A shadow of doubt crossed her face, but then she quietly said:

— There’s only one place where you might find answers. The Guild. But it’s not easy to get in, and even if you do, no one’s likely to share their secrets with you.

— The Guild? — Malcolm echoed. — What is it? How do I get there?

— It’s where the fates of people like you are decided. They control the passages. They keep the knowledge of the Veil. But to gain entry, you have to pay… with whatever you’ve got, — Greta glanced him up and down. — And you… don’t have much, do you?

Malcolm felt a surge of heat flare up in his chest at her words. She was right. He was helpless. Even his body, which should have been his strength and support, had become only a source of weakness. What could he offer? How could he pay?

But then he remembered Laura’s gaze. Cold, mocking… but filled with something else. Interest? Recognition?

— Then… I’ll find a way. I have to, — he whispered, clenching his hands into fists. — I can’t just give up.

Greta didn’t respond, only sighed softly and shook her head.

— It’s your choice. I like you—you remind me of myself once. Maybe you’ll manage. Find the Guild, if you’re so determined. But remember, it’s all just a dead-end path. In the end, you’ll either come back to me or end up in a place like this — a faint smile appeared on her face as she glanced almost pityingly at Malcolm, then returned to her work. 'Maybe she’ll make it,' she thought, recalling her own hopes, but showing nothing of it in her gestures or expression.