Chapter 6: Two Breads with Cheese

Silverport City had been getting more and more wrong lately.

The number of homeless on the streets had grown.

Under the bridge, people filled every space.

Park benches were claimed as soon as night fell, with people using newspapers and cardboard to build crooked little shelters.

The bakery’s line started at six in the morning.

By ten o’clock, it still wrapped around two corners.

The people in line didn’t speak—they just stood there, like pieces of wood nailed into the ground.

Orlando had been wandering the streets all day, every day.

Not because he wanted to, but because he had nowhere else to go.

The editorial office work was gone.

Every morning he woke up with nothing to do, so he put on his coat and walked.

From the east district to the west district.

From the docks to the park.

From morning until evening, until his legs were weak and his stomach growled, until he had no choice but to go back and eat that half-price bread.

Silverport City was big—big enough that you could walk for a month without repeating a route.

But Silverport City was also small—small enough that no matter how you walked, you always saw the same things.

Gray sky, gray buildings, gray people.

Several banks had closed.

Not the kind of closed that meant “under renovation,” but the kind where wooden boards were nailed over the doors.

Broken glass went unrepaired.

Crooked signs stayed crooked.

White sealing strips were pasted on the doors, flapping noisily in the wind.

One bank still had a piece of advertising painting left on its glass—a man in a suit standing in front of a big house, holding a stack of bills, grinning so wide you could see his gums.

Under the painting was written:

“Federal Bank—Your wealth manager.”

Someone had added a line beneath it in black paint:

“Managed it right where?”

That line had been erased and rewritten, written and erased, until eventually no one bothered anymore.

It just stayed there, dark and black, like a scabbed-over scar.

Orlando stood at the bank’s entrance for a while, then turned and kept walking.

He had a few hundred Federal Marks left in his pocket.

Half a year ago, that would have lasted him more than a month.

Now, it would last maybe three weeks.

Food prices had gone up, but rent hadn’t—the landlord said no one was renting, so he didn’t dare raise it.

But Silverport City’s rent was already the highest on the continent; even without a raise, it was killing him.

He reached an intersection when a gust of wind swept up scraps of paper and dust, smacking him in the face.

A newspaper fluttered past.

He reached out to grab it but missed.

The paper tumbled in the air, opened up, and landed at his feet.

He looked down—some factory had gone bankrupt, some bank had suspended operations, some industry had laid off a certain percentage of workers.

The accompanying image was a black-and-white photo: a row of people standing in front of a factory gate, each holding a bucket or a bag, heads bowed in a line that stretched out of sight.

A line of small text beneath the photo read:

“Silverport City Relief Station distributes 2,000 portions of food per day.”

Two thousand.

Silverport City had 700,000 people.

Two thousand portions fed two thousand people.

The remaining 698,000 waited at home to die, or walked the streets to die—the difference wasn’t much.

Orlando lifted his foot from the newspaper and kept walking.

After a few steps, a sound reached him from ahead—rhythmic, orderly, carrying a certain forcefulness.

Like something pounding the ground, beat after beat, growing closer.

He looked up toward the source.

At the end of the street was an intersection.

On the other side, he could vaguely make out a mass of people—dark and dense, like a rising tide.

Workers.

Hundreds of workers.

Not a scattered crowd wandering the streets, but an organized, disciplined formation.

They wore work clothes, some with caps, some bareheaded, some with patched-up outfits.

Their faces shared a common expression—not anger, not sorrow, but that “I’ve got nothing left to lose” look.

The ones at the front carried flags and banners.

The flags were red, the banners made of white cloth with slogans painted in black.

The characters were crooked but every stroke showed real effort.

They had armbands—blue ones with union insignia.

These unions had never had much presence in Silverport City.

Bosses didn’t recognize them, the government ignored them, and the workers themselves didn’t take them seriously.

But now the factories were closed, the workers were jobless, and the relief station’s bread wasn’t enough.

People were desperate.

When people got desperate, they banded together.

Orlando stood by the roadside, watching the crowd approach.

The slogans grew clearer.

He could make out a few words:

“We want work! We want bread! No starving! No freezing! Capitalists get out!”

The slogans were short—no need to pause for breath.

Repeated over and over, the voices of hundreds merged together, rattling the glass windows on both sides of the street.

Orlando leaned against the wall.

He had no interest in getting mixed up in this mess.

The procession paused at the intersection.

From the other side of the street came another procession—police.

Black uniforms, from head to toe.

Silver buttons at the collars and cuffs gleamed in the dim light.

They marched in rigid formation, steps in unison.

Their boots struck the stone pavement with heavy thuds.

Those in front carried batons; behind them, shields were raised.

The shields were half a person tall, made of gray-black metal polished to a mirror shine.

Behind them, some carried something else.

Orlando couldn’t see clearly, but he knew what it was.

The workers stopped.

Not because they wanted to, but because the road ahead was blocked.

A white-haired worker spoke first.

His voice wasn’t loud, but it was clear in the empty street—like a stone thrown into still water:

“We want to see the mayor.”

The police captain didn’t move.

He stood there, hands behind his back, his expression like an unfinished stone carving.

The white-haired worker continued:

“Our brothers haven’t been paid in three months. The factory boss ran off. Who do we ask for our wages? Our houses were mortgaged to the bank. The bank went under. Who owns the houses now?”

“That’s right!”

“Well said!”

Finally, the police captain spoke.

His voice carried an officious, emotionless tone:

“The mayor isn’t in Silverport City. Disperse.”

“Disperse?”

The white-haired worker stepped forward, his voice rising with a hint of hoarseness.

“If we disperse, what will our wives and children eat? You’ll feed them?”

A bitter laugh came from the crowd—forced out, like someone backed into a corner.

Orlando stood at the edge of the street, watching these two walls.

One wall was made of people—gray, uneven, cobbled together from hundreds of starving bodies.

The other wall was made of iron—black, uniform, formed by a hundred armed police officers.

The distance between them was less than 50 meters.

For a person, that was enough to cover in seven or eight seconds.

For a bullet, less than one.

He finally understood what Victoria had said.

“Two slices of bread sandwiching a slice of cheese.”

The first banner was torn down.

No one knew who made the first move.

Maybe someone from the workers pushed forward.

Maybe a cop swung a baton.

Or maybe some unlucky bastard tripped over his own shoelace and bumped into the person in front.

Either way, by the time the first banner was torn, the scene had already turned into a complete mess.

Orlando heard the sound of metal striking metal—a baton hitting a flagpole.

The pole broke, the flag floated down, landing on the heads of the crowd like a white flag of surrender torn into red scraps.

The noise grew louder and more chaotic.

Like hundreds of bees trapped in a jar, battering against the walls.

He saw the workers surge forward.

Smoke thickened, obscuring what was happening in the middle.

But this had little to do with him.

He wasn’t a worker.

Right now, he would either be trampled into mush or arrested by the police—neither was a good outcome.

He had to run.

If the police cleared the area and caught him, he wouldn’t even be able to explain who he was.

Then he’d collapse from exhaustion, turn back into Olivia, and be executed as a monster.

He didn’t want to die like that—a dragon slayer, finally slain as a dragon.

That was too absurd.

He pushed off the wall, took two steps left, and found that way blocked.

He turned, took two steps right, and found that way blocked too.

He stood at the intersection and looked around—front, back, left, right, all full of people.

Gray-clad workers surged from the left; black-uniformed police pushed from the right.

Just as he was at a loss, a motorcycle burst out from the corner.

The rider wore a dark leather jacket and a half-helmet.

The goggles covered half her face, revealing only a bit of nose tip and pressed lips.

Gray hair spilled out from under the helmet, fluttering in the wind like a flag.

Liya.

Orlando didn’t have time to wonder why she was here or how she could ride a motorcycle.

The rear wheel skidded.

The bike leaned, the exhaust pipe nearly scraping the ground.

Liya pushed her helmet’s goggles up to her forehead, revealing a pair of amber eyes.

“Get on!”

She shouted.

Her voice was mostly drowned out by the surrounding chaos, but Orlando heard it clearly—not because it was loud, but because her lips shaped the words distinctly.

He didn’t hesitate.

One hand grabbed her shoulder, one leg swung over the seat.

Before his rear fully landed, the motorcycle had already shot forward.

His body lurched backward, nearly falling off.

Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around Liya’s waist.

Her waist was thin, and the leather jacket was slippery; he had to grip twice to hold on.

Her body was pressed against the gas tank, her center of gravity low.

Her eyes were fixed ahead, her ears perked straight up, every hair alert to the sounds around them.

Orlando glanced back.

No police, no workers—only gray smoke drifting from the alley like lazy snakes slithering across the ground.

Just as he started to relax, Liya’s helmet suddenly tilted left.

The motorcycle followed, leaning to the left.

His body was flung to the right by centrifugal force, nearly making him let go.

They had reached Silverport City’s harbor.

The road was full of potholes—deep ones created by heavy trucks.

Water had collected in them, with a slick of oil floating on the surface.

The motorcycle zigzagged between the holes, like a dance without rhythm.

Orlando’s rear end ached, his teeth chattered, and his stomach churned.

“Slow—slow down!”

They reached the docks.

Ordinarily, this place would be stacked with containers and cargo.

But the economy was in recession; the docks were empty, leaving only rows of rusty shelves and a few crane machines covered in rust.

The sea lay at the end of the dock—gray-blue, blending into the sky so that you couldn’t tell where water ended and sky began.

Wind blew in from the sea, salty and damp, cooling against his face.

Liya stopped the motorcycle.

The engine died, and suddenly the whole world fell silent.

Only the sound of waves slapping against the dock remained—steady, rhythmic, like something enormous breathing.

The distant sounds of street commotion could still be heard, but so far away that they were tiny, like static from a radio.

Orlando got off the back seat, his legs weak.

He stood on the dock and took a deep breath.

The taste of seawater filled his lungs—cool and refreshing, washing away some of the chaos in his mind.

Liya was still on the motorcycle, one foot on the ground.

She hadn’t removed her helmet; her goggles were pushed up on her forehead.

Her eyes looked at the sea, not at him.

“How did you know I was there?”

Orlando asked.

Liya was silent for a moment.

Her ears twitched, as if listening to something far away.

Then she said something very quietly, so soft that Orlando almost couldn’t catch it:

“I pass by there every day after work, and I saw you.”

The wind on the dock grew stronger, lifting the hem of his coat like a poorly hung flag.

He heard Liya get off the motorcycle.

Her boots clicked softly on the concrete, like a cat walking.

She came to stand a few steps behind him, then stopped.

He didn’t turn around, but he knew she was there.

He could feel her gaze on his back—like a small patch of warm sunlight that wouldn’t burn.

“Orlando, watch out,” she called.

Just as he was about to turn, his foot stepped on something—a patch of wet moss on the concrete edge of the dock, soaked green by seawater, as slippery as oil.

His foot slid forward.

His body lost balance, and he pitched backward.

He tried to grab something, but there was nothing—the dock edge was bare, no railing, no rope, not even a protruding rock.

His hand cut through the air, catching nothing.

Liya’s hand reached out.

Her fingers touched his wrist, slipped, then grabbed hold.

Her strength wasn’t great—cat-folk were never strong, and with her much smaller frame, gripping a grown man’s wrist took all she had.

Orlando’s body was falling.

His weight pulled Liya forward a step.

Her boots slid on the concrete, and her other hand instinctively grabbed for his sleeve, but the leather jacket was too slippery; her fingers slid off the cuff.

He saw the light in her eyes.

Amber, wet, like two copper coins soaked by rain.

Her mouth opened, trying to yell something, but no sound came out.

The wind was too strong, pulling his body backward, blowing her hair forward.

Gray strands drifted across his face—tickling, like a certain kind of farewell.

“Orlando!”

Then his hand slipped out of hers.

Not because he let go, but because gravity won.

His body fell backward, drawing an arc, dropping off the edge of the dock.

He saw Liya’s face grow smaller above.

The seawater caught him—

And then Victoria’s voice came, soft, cold, like an echo from somewhere very far away.

“Is this all you’ve got?”

He opened his mouth to curse that voice.

But the seawater rushed in—into his throat, into his stomach, into his lungs.

He didn’t have the strength to curse anymore.

He closed his eyes.

The dark green seawater turned black.

And then he didn’t know anything anymore.