The Paralel World Doctor

Neon Lights

Peter moved his folding table toward Melody Paradise as night thickened.

The road in front of the building was far busier than the market. Motorcycles parked in layers near the sidewalk, a parking attendant blew his whistle as if the whole road belonged to him, a cigarette seller opened his box of goods under an electric pole, and drunk customers went in and out while laughing loudly. Music seeped through the glass doors, mixing with cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, spilled beer, and hot air from exhaust pipes.

The neon lights of Melody Paradise flashed pink, blue, then purple. From a distance, the light made people’s faces look smoother. Up close, it only made them look more tired.

Peter opened his table at a spot that did not block the entrance. He placed the small box of ten pills on a white cloth, then leaned the price board against the table leg. Forging Qi Pill, sixty dollars. The words had not even been fully read when the parking attendant nearby laughed.

“Bro, selling stamina pills in front of a karaoke club is smart. But sixty dollars is too confident.”

The security guard at the door turned his head. His body was large, his uniform tight around the stomach, and his eyes belonged to someone who had seen too many problems come from poor men trying to look clever. “If someone faints because of your medicine, do not run. I am too lazy to chase skinny people at night.”

A red haired hostess smoking by the side door glanced at Peter’s pills, then at his face. “He looks like he has not eaten, but he wants to sell energy. Funny.”

A drunk customer who had just stepped out of a car raised his brows. “Sixty dollars? Better to pay for an extra room. At least you get songs, a sofa, and air conditioning.”

Laughter came from several directions. No one was truly angry. That made the insults sharper. They did not see Peter as a criminal. They saw him as cheap entertainment outside an expensive entertainment venue.

Peter stood behind the table, his back straight and his face calm. In Zicari, the medicine’s effect was enough to open doors. On Earth, people judged tables, clothes, permits, shop lights, and the person willing to guarantee your name. The pill before him could help an ordinary person’s meridians breathe better, but in their eyes, it lost to a plastic board and his repeatedly washed shirt.

Several hostesses came out together through the side door. They laughed while fixing their hair and lipstick, tapping each other’s arms when they saw Peter’s stall.

“Red pills?” one of them said, stepping closer. “Do not tell me they are colored candy.”

“If candy sells for sixty dollars, I want to sell it too,” another said. “Buy sugar, roll it into balls, name it heaven and earth, then become rich.”

The parking attendant joined in. “Do not underestimate him. Maybe after eating that pill, your voices will rise eight octaves.”

The red haired hostess laughed so hard her cigarette trembled. “If my voice breaks, who pays my tips? Him? That plastic table might even be borrowed.”

Peter did not respond. He watched how they stood, how they laughed, and how some of them touched their throats after stepping out of the cold rooms into the night air. The nightlife world had its own diseases. Cigarettes, alcohol, lack of sleep, forced singing, and chests that kept swallowing exhaustion. Most people here laughed not because they were healthy, but because laughing was cheaper than admitting fragility.

The side door opened again.

A woman walked out with her chin slightly raised. Her hair fell neatly over her shoulders, her dress fit closely, and her steps were made steady, as if the ground before Melody Paradise had been prepared for her. Several parking attendants looked over. The other hostesses lowered their voices. She was not the youngest, but the way she carried herself made people give her space.

Peter did not know her, but her body spoke more honestly than her face. Her breathing was short. The color of her lips was a little darker than the lipstick she wore. Cold sweat appeared faintly below her ear, and when she stopped near the door, her shoulder held back a cough that almost broke free.

“Coming out too?” the red haired hostess greeted her with a smile too sweet to be kind.

The woman only glanced at her. “Looking for air.”

“Air, or a new VIP customer?”

Some people laughed. The woman gave a small smile, but Peter saw her palm press briefly against her side, fast enough to escape anyone who only looked at her dress and high chin.

Her gaze fell on Peter’s table.

“Sixty dollars for a pill?” she read the board, then looked him over. “People outside are getting more creative with money.”

The parking attendant whistled softly. “Careful, bro. When she speaks, your pride may hurt more than your wallet.”

Peter looked at her without offense. Among everyone laughing at him, she needed the pill the most. Unfortunately, she also walked with the highest chin, like someone who thought pride could replace breath.

She looked away and went back through the side door, leaving behind the scent of expensive perfume that failed to cover the faint smell of cough medicine in her breath.

Peter closed the pill box slowly, but his eyes stayed on the door that had just shut. Tonight, the person who needed him most was not ready to admit her body was losing.