Forward roll, light attack, light attack. Respect the enemy, backstep. Wide slashes of the enemy combo, side dodge, forward roll towards him to close the distance. Light attack, boss unbalanced. Riposte, victory. Loot: Scoundrel's Crown.

Roberto wandered around the arena for a while, then activated the save point. It was time to progress to the next area, but he didn't feel like it. He took his eyes off the screen for a moment. It was dark outside the window and the reddish light of the street lamps illuminated the asphalt. It was impossible to tell what time it was based on that single piece of information.

With a quick tap on the phone screen he got the data he was looking for. 2:27.

He closed the software and shut down the system. He pushed back his chair and stood up, stretching, while his face lit up with the bluish light of the PC that was turning off.

He ran a hand over his stomach, as if to calm a painful hunger cramp. The pizza he had devoured for dinner had been digested and his body was now demanding new nourishment.

Roberto stepped over a pile of shoes and clothes thrown haphazardly in his filthy room and headed towards the kitchen. He turned on the LED lights that illuminated the room with their cold glow and rummaged through the cupboard. Nothing. No cookies, no instant ramen, not even a can of tuna. Maybe he would have had better luck checking the freezer, maybe there was some frozen snack left to prepare in the microwave. Nothing there either.

Maybe he could have ordered a sandwich on some delivery app. Or maybe not. He had already financed the delivery guys enough for the day, and the money in his account was starting to run low. He had to find a new job quickly, or it would be hell to pay.

Roberto lit a cigarette, pulled the hood of his black sweatshirt over his bald head, and left the apartment. Direction: the 24-hour supermarket on the corner of the street of his apartment complex and Via Mantegna.

Along the way, as he kicked a can that had been thrown on the sidewalk, he couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for himself. At that time of night, after a day spent in front of a screen, he spontaneously thought about death.

He was at the dawn of his thirties and all hope had already abandoned him. He had gone to university and five exams away from graduating in economics he had dropped out. He had worked for a tampon brand as a social media manager, but they paid him lousy and in the end he had dropped out. He had never been able to understand the dramas of menstruation anyway. Maybe that was why his girlfriend had dumped him. Or maybe because he was a failure.

He threw the butt of his still-lit cigarette into the ditch in the street.

In that city far from where he had grown up, there was no one left for him. Just a couple of acquaintances to go smoke joints with in the park on Saturday nights. And smoking was starting to make him sick. Maybe it was time to give up and go back home to his family. He didn’t even understand the point of continuing to indulge in that wild lifestyle anymore.

He kept going by inertia without a shred of a goal. But on him, on his rickety body that hadn’t exercised in years, he could definitely feel the passage of time. He always had back pain and had to gorge on antihistamines to stop the sneezing fits triggered by his dusty apartment.

He was in a really crappy state. He looked like a fucking goblin.

And soon he wouldn't even have the money to ignore the bad waters he was sailing in, drowning his anguish in video games and TV series.

He entered the minimarket greeted by the frantic buzz of the refrigerators. The boy at the register, in his red apron, waved at him. It was Jonathan, the guy who sold him the weed on Saturdays.

"On duty tonight again, huh?" Roberto asked.

"Burning the midnight oil again, huh?" Jonathan retorted.

"I was hoping that hot chick Jessica would be here," Roberto continued, with a hint of disappointment.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but at least you can have a chat. Hot and frigid, Jessica doesn't utter a word, she only talks in front of her fucking phone to make demential TikToks," Jonathan tried to find a silver lining in that situation.

“It’s just that I’m not in the mood for chatter tonight, but my eyes are desperate for gratification,” Roberto justified himself.

“At most I can offer you a dirty magazine, buddy,” Jonathan observed, chuckling, then asked: “So, how can I serve you?”

“Warm me up a hot dog, without mustard please, and a can of cold coke,” was Roberto’s response.

Despite his boasted lack of desire to chat, with the hot dog and the can wrapped in a bag, Roberto stood in front of the register for about ten minutes talking to Jonathan about Ice Spell, the game he was trying to get a platinum of. When a new customer came in, Roberto came back to reality, said goodbye, and went off to the neighborhood park to eat his meal.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

As he usually did when he had a late-night snack, he went to the bench with the peeling paint in the center of the park, in the middle of a gravel clearing, sat down and put the bag down next to him.

He took out the hot dog and began to bite into it greedily, staining his chin with ketchup. He managed to devour it in five large bites, and swallowed the soft dough of the bun almost without chewing. Then he took the cold can, opened it, and took a refreshing sip that was followed by a loud burp.

Without bothering to use the handkerchief Jonathan had thoughtfully placed in the envelope, he wiped his dirty face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. As he performed this sordid act, a humanoid figure appeared in his peripheral vision.

With his chin still in the crook of his elbow, Roberto turned to look at her better. A singular individual, to put it mildly. A tall, thin male in his fifties, dressed in elegant clothes, with a walking stick in his hand. His face was particularly disturbing: he looked like the Monopoly man, with his piercing black eyes, except that he was gaunt, almost skeletal. At three in the morning, an encounter like that couldn’t bode well. The guy certainly didn’t have all his marbles in place.

Roberto hoped the man would continue his walk and ignore him. Instead, he stopped right in front of him, his walking stick firmly planted between his feet and his hands gripping the handle.

“Do you mind if I sit down next to you? I’d like to discuss business,” the man asked, looking him straight in the eye.

Damn, what a pain. Roberto had dealt with lunatics every now and then, and he had learned one thing: never contradict them. They would exchange a few words, he would be condescending, and then he would say good night, because it was really time for him to go to bed. And if the man were violent, he would punch him and run away. He certainly couldn’t keep up with him in those heavy corduroy pants and those flat-soled leather shoes. Having worked out these strategies, Roberto replied in an affected tone: “Of course, sir, help yourself!”

“You look like you’re broke, young man,” the gentleman began, sitting down and crossing his legs: “You have no job, no money, and if you don’t pay the rent you’ll soon find yourself without a roof over your head. Am I wrong?”

“Huh? Yes… I mean, it depends on your point of view,” Roberto replied, taken aback. There: the weirdo was about to offer him money in change for a kidney, he thought.

“Oh, don’t be reticent! It just so happens that I’m here to offer you a job, young man. I’m always looking for new recruits with your… qualifications, your aptitude, so to speak,” the man urged him.

“Qualifications?” Roberto asked, stunned.

“Yes, of course! You just found yourself thinking, and I quote, ‘I look like a fucking goblin,’ right? Now, there is no better job profile for the job I am about to propose to you. A man who is used to staying up all night, eating junk food, who hasn’t exercised in years, with unhealthy habits. A man with a clouded moral sense, and whose expectations for the future have been shattered prematurely. You are right up my alley!” The man concluded.

Roberto, who couldn’t figure out whether what he had just received was praise or an insult, was starting to get carried away by the stranger’s emphatic words. Yet the fact that he had apparently read his thoughts didn’t even cross his mind. He just wanted to delve deeper into that unusual proposal: “Oh yeah? And what job would that be?”

“You know, it almost seems comical to put it that way, but trust me, it’s not. Since you have self-described as a goblin, I would like you to work for me as a goblin caregiver,” the man continued.

“Goblin’s caregiver? I don’t understand,” Roberto said confused.

“No, goblin caregiver. You know, I run a very special retirement home. One in a kind. It’s a metaphysical facility, on the edge of reality, for grandpas and grandmas with very bad kids. During the day it seems like a normal facility, but during the night the hours get longer and the old people’s suffering multiplies. That’s how our business model works: we pay families with unwanted seniors to take them into our care, and we leave them with their pension money. Then we prolong their suffering, making it drip like syrup from a maple tree. The inhabitants of the underworld are greedy for this delicacy, they pay very well!” The man trilled excitedly.

That crazy explanation made Roberto snicker. It was clearly bullshit, a joke. The guy was definitely recording him with a hidden camera for a Reel or a Tiktok. But, in fact, he had really chosen the right person. For the right compensation, Roberto wouldn’t have given a damn about working in a place like that. After all, it was the old people’s fault if they had raised shitty children, who in their last days had abandoned them to the devil. So he continued to play along: “And what should I do?”

“You will be a social health worker. You will take care of the elderly. You will take care of them so that they do not die, and you will prod them with continuous torture so that they suffer the pains of hell. It is not an easy task, I realize that. The smells of feces and vomit are intolerable, and the screams are high-pitched and monotonous. Some, in the grip of dementia, become violent. It is an environment that in the long run would end up breaking even an already worn-out soul like yours. That is why I offer my employees the opportunity to transform into goblins when they walk through the door of the hospice after dark. This dulls their senses and makes their minds more inclined to perpetrate vexations. But do not worry, the transformation is only temporary. When you leaves the building in the morning, you will return to being a respectable human,” the man explained again.

“Of course, of course,” Roberto said amusedly: “And how is the compensation?”

“Just enough to continue living the lifestyle you currently lead, and maybe even save a little,” the man said seriously.

“Okay, that’s enough for me!” Roberto exclaimed ambiguously, standing up: “It was a pleasure to meet you!”

“Wait! The business card! And a small advance payment for your services!” The skinny Monopoly man said in return, offering a card wrapped in a hundred-euro bill.

Roberto certainly couldn’t refuse money that had fallen from the sky, so he took the kind offer from the man’s fingers, green as the skin that would soon cover his knuckles. Then he studied the white card, on which, in crimson letters, was written the name “Villa degli Amorini”.

“Your shift starts tomorrow evening, at ten, at the address on the business card. We’ll be expecting you!” the man greeted.

With a nod, Roberto also said goodbye.