[1]

Blood continued to flow from the wound he got, just pouring out. Wanted to ignore it like twenty minutes ago, but the pain kept building up. He paused for a moment. Took a breath and suddenly his body slumped down to touch the ground. The fight earlier really overwhelmed her.

"Damn," he cursed, seeing her hands covered in fresh blood.

The sound was deafening, almost bursting he eardrums. Echoing. Making anyone who heard it shudder and choose to run as far away as possible. The man glanced up, slightly shifting his body to avoid being too visible from aerial surveillance. Above, there's this spinning object emitting bright light. He knew each side of it was surrounded by weapons.

As soon as the object scanned movement, the weapons ruthlessly thrust with hot lead.

There was no other choice but to move into the Sunken Forest. Where the risk was the same: death.

But the man still had plenty of guts. No matter how precious his life was, getting out of this area was his goal.

Taking a gamble. On the universe that he felt wasn’t favoring him today, so that he could breathe easy tomorrow.

Then...

Peace would be established in Metro.

Just like his duty as the Last Horratio.

***

Every morning, Gala's head felt like it was hit by a giant hammer. The headache never seemed to go away, and he always felt dizzy as he started to walk. His clumsy behavior sometimes led him to stumble repeatedly. The worn-out carpet, torn in several places, and reeking of mildew always caused him to fall flat on the floor. Always, without fail.

It happened almost every day. Gala himself was confused about what was really going on with him. Like the most clueless person in the world. When it gets like this, Gala can only gently rub his forehead. Sitting cross-legged while muttering multiple times about the misfortune he has.

Whether it's because he's awkward or if Gala was just born with a lot of clumsiness, he doesn't understand. "My teeth might fall off at this rate," he mutters softly. He then rubs his lips, which are once again injured. He rubs his forehead, which he feels has gone numb from kissing the floor. Glancing briefly at the old clock, grateful it's still hanging, though if it could complain, it probably would've wanted to become trash already.

Every passing second sounds like someone on their deathbed, struggling to breathe, so weak. But Gala still needs it. Maybe this month's pay will allow him to buy a new one. Slightly better than this one from the second-hand goods store at the Border Market not far from the city outskirts.

A market that sells various necessities that are still usable at prices cheaper than buying them directly from the original stores. Gala always wanted to buy quality items, but he knows he doesn't have enough money. If his life could just run somewhat normally, he'd be extremely grateful. To whoever, at least Gala doesn't want to complain anymore.

It's pointless.

Help won't come to him. Instead, he's becoming more miserable; mocked and pushed further away.

Gala snorts afterward. He looks back at the old clock. The long hand has passed the number six, which means... he's late. Why does he always get the morning shift? The one that always becomes his weakness? The one that makes him more of a loser and a laughingstock?

Not wanting to curse his bad luck too much, he quickly gets up. A little unsteady, he kicks away the scattered items near where he fell earlier. Grabs his faded uniform, but every time he talks to Mr. Kim, it's always a barrage of reprimands that he receives.

The guy with rosy, pig-like cheeks said casually, "You're a kitchen staff. No need to look good in that uniform. Besides, you deal more with trash bags. Uniforms are expensive. It's your fault for not taking care of it."

So Gala just resigned himself and accepted what he could do. Two years struggling with the heaps of fast-food restaurant garbage managed by Mr. Kim. Never any promotion, like becoming a cook or anything a bit more dignified in his eyes. Just a server.

Never. Gala hoped for it, couldn't even ask. Maybe by now Gala had become just a nuisance to his neighbors. It didn't take long for him to wrestle with the bathroom. Not only because it was no longer suitable, despite Gala's repeated protests to the flat owner, Mrs. Milly, but repairs were never made.

Mrs. Milly kept pushing Gala to pay the towering rent, which accumulated when he lived with his mother. The worst part was, his mother left without leaving a single cent for Gala, instead, piling up debts regarding the flat rent. Almost every month, Gala's salary vanished just to pay off debts his mother left behind. Not to mention the countless claims from people he didn't even know demanding the remaining debts.

It feels like Gala could go crazy if this keeps up.

Complaining also feels like no one would listen.

Here he stands, at the doorway, patting his pale cheeks. His skin is indeed fair, even though his mother wasn't as fair-skinned. Instead, she seemed to have the common skin tone of the West Metro group. No idea where his fairness came from. Regardless, it added to one more misfortune he had. The cynical looks and increasing mockery as time passed. Gala's now twenty-five years old.

It's depressing.

If he could swap his name for a luxurious life, because his mother's chosen name for him, Galaksi Haidar, was foretold to have a significant meaning, but he doesn't feel anything significant about it. Maybe... significant misfortunes surrounding his life. That makes sense. Even his robust physique couldn't fade the misfortunes that kept happening in his life. He could only pray every day, hoping the bad luck he made his surname wouldn't be too much and could still be manageable. That's the hope.

Gala rushes out with yesterday's leftover bread for breakfast, just two bites, and milk who-knows-how-many days old in the fridge. He doesn't have time to take it out or even warm it up. His food supply is only enough until tonight. Hopefully, Mr. Kim will kindly pay his meager salary. Gala wants to rant, but he needs the lifeline Mr. Kim provides in his restaurant.

In South Metro, who else will give him free lunch and dinner if Mr. Kim isn't feeling generous? Though his portly boss is always fierce, never speaking in a relaxed tone, and his face always turns beet red when talking to Gala. Maybe because Gala often makes him furious. Yet, Mr. Kim still has a bit of a heart. He allows Gala to have lunch and take dinner from the restaurant he owns. Not that tasty, but Gala can fill his stomach and bulk up even more. It's all thanks to Mr. Kim. Gala doesn't mind the Red Cheeks scolding him, as long as his stomach doesn't continuously ache from hunger.

"Morning, Gala," Mr. Richard greets right at the stairway. He's holding two full shopping bags.

"Morning," Gala replies shortly. "Sorry, I'm in a rush."

"Late again?"

Gala just shrugs. Unsure if the question is meant to tease him or just an inquiry. Almost every day, he feels like he's asked the same question. And another one, "Have you had breakfast, Gala? Your face looks paler."

Gala could never forget the part Mr. Richard always asks. It's like there's no other question. Maybe some flat residents assume Mr. Richard pays a bit more attention to Gala, but he doesn't. Every time Gala reluctantly spends time, there's always something the old man has to say. Including things about his mother that Gala doesn't want to hear.

"Help me clean out the storage room the day after tomorrow," he commands.

The young man quickly glanced before fully heading towards the door. He lived in a small flat, cramped with other neighbors. Their economic situations were probably similar, but Gala felt he was the most miserable. Mr. Richard, a retired worker from a big bank, unfortunately received very little pension. The rest was eaten up by his foolish son. Sadly, Mr. Richard loved his foolish son dearly.

If Gala's parents were as kind as Mr. Richard, maybe he would've returned more than just looking after him. But alas, he's only a listener to the foolish nonsense that often came out of the man nearby.

"There's payment for it, Gala. Don't worry," Mr. Richard says.

In his mind, Gala curses again. Does it look like he doesn't have money written all over his not-so-great face? But the coins and a few bills Mr. Richard gave him could be used to add to the flat rent payment to Mrs. Milly.

"Okay, Mr. Richard. After work, I'll help," he says hurriedly. He doesn't want to appear too needy, even though his eyes suddenly brighten. As bright as the morning sun. Then he quickly closes the door, leading to the side of the flat building where his beaten-up bicycle is parked. That's his most valuable possession now.

He lets out a long breath.

"Come on, Gala. Today's going to be a long day."