No, it couldn't be a dream.

In all those dreams, my thoughts and actions weren't mine; they felt foreign, like watching someone else live my life. But here, in this moment, I am clearly in control... right?

I should look for that man, even if it means risking an ambush. Finding the cause of these dreams is a priority—a long time one at that.

Now that I think about it, he does give me a faint sense of familiarity. No, not him specifically, but that eye instead. It’s as if I’ve seen it before in a different context, perhaps in one of those haunting dreams.

Where should I look for him? If he really is connected to Olin, I shouldn’t abandon my investigation just yet. But something tells me he isn’t one of them.

I’ll start by asking around.

---

After hours of wandering through the marketplace and asking anyone who would listen for information about that one-eyed man, I had received nothing but blank stares and shrugs. The vibrant life of the market continued around me—vendors shouting prices for their goods, children laughing and playing tag among the stalls—but I felt increasingly isolated in my search.

Could I have imagined it? Surely not. The memory of that eye was too vivid, too unsettling to be a figment of my imagination.

Should I give this up? No, I can’t. The nagging feeling that something important is at stake drives me forward. I’ll continue for a little longer; if I don’t find anything today, there’s always tomorrow.

As I scan the bustling stalls once more, my stomach growls in protest. That food stall might be a good option; even if the owner doesn’t know anything about Mokkal, at least I can grab a bite to eat.

The stall is adorned with colorful banners fluttering in the breeze, and the rich aroma of spices wafts through the air as I approach. After ordering something to eat—a steaming bowl of spiced stew with crusty bread—I take a moment to savor the warmth radiating from the bowl in my hands. The owner, a burly man with a bushy beard and kind eyes, wipes his hands on his apron before turning his attention to me.

“Excuse me,” I say after taking a few bites, “Do you happen to know anything about a man with one blue eye?"

The stall owner pauses for a moment, his brow furrowing in thought. “Yeah, that sounds like Mokkal,” he replies slowly.

“Really? Mokkal! Where does he live?” My heart quickens at this new lead, strangely, that faint sense of familiarity arises within me again.

“Hmmm… did he get into trouble?” the stall owner asks cautiously.

“No,” I reply quickly, “I just want to return something to him, he dropped it earlier.” i lie, lying has always come naturally for me.

“Is that so? Well, what did he drop? Maybe I could return it?” He leans forward slightly, curiosity sparking in his eyes.

Does he suspect I'm lying? Thankfully, I prepared for this moment; reaching into my pocket, I pull out a gold coin and show it to him. His eyes widen slightly as he takes in the glimmering metal.

“Ah,” he says with newfound respect. “Well then! He lives down on Maple Street—just a few blocks from here. The big yellow building he's on the third floor first door to the right.”

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

After thanking him profusely and finishing my meal quickly, I set off toward Maple Street with renewed determination.

---

As I step out of the food stall, the cool morning air wraps around me like a damp blanket, a stark contrast to the warmth of the stew I just consumed.

I navigate through the narrow alleyways, each step echoing softly against the stone walls, creating a rhythm that matches my racing heart. The faint sounds of laughter and clinking glasses drift from nearby taverns, reminders of life continuing on without me.

As I walk, my thoughts drift back to that one-eyed man—Mokkal. His piercing blue eye haunts me, a vivid image etched into my mind. I quicken my pace, determined to uncover whatever connection he has to my dreams, if he even has any.

Turning onto Maple Streett i notice all the building on there, both the big ones and the small ones. I see that yellow building just on the end of the street, hopefully within it i find what i've been looking for for a long time.

After reaching the door that that food stall owner sent me towards I pause for a moment, on the door a nametag with Mokkal written on it. All of a sudden fear grips me and i wonder if i should just turn back.

But no, there's no way i could do that.

Before knocking on Mokkal's door, I pause to check my revolver—its weight feels reassuring against my side. I make sure it's loaded and ready to be drawn at a moment's notice, caution has become second nature in this line of work.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

The sound echoes through the quiet hallway of the building as I wait anxiously on the doorstep. Moments later, the door creaks open to reveal Mr. Mokkal—a middle-aged man with an shaven beard and jet black hair. He squints at me suspiciously before stepping aside to let me enter.

“What do you want?” he asks bluntly as I carefully step inside his dimly lit home.

“Surely you know why I've come,” I answer back evenly, trying to maintain an air of confidence despite almost trembling from fear.

“Indeed,” Mokkal replies slowly as he studies me more closely. “Now that I've got a better look at you... you're not him.”

Him? Who is he referring to?

Before I get the chance to ask for clarification, he continues: “You're not not him either.”

What?? Confusion washes over me like cold water.

He sighs heavily as if burdened by some unseen weight. “To think I got worked up for nothing,” he mutters under his breath.

What does he mean? Why would he get worked up? My mind races with questions as uncertainty floods my thoughts. What should I ask him first?

“I think I've got a good grasp on your situation,” Mokkal says suddenly, his tone shifting from suspicion to something more contemplative.

“Oh? You do? Well can you explain it to me?” My curiosity piques; perhaps this man holds answers that could shed light on my dreams.

After a few moments of contemplation—his gaze drifting toward the window as if searching for clarity—he finally nods and gestures toward an old wooden chair across from him. “Sit down.”