“It ain't much but it'll do ya.”

The portly landlord's words were accurate, and yet somehow still managed to undersell the current state of the building we stood in. 

I wasn't even sure if it could be called a building. It had four walls, a roof, and a floor. But it was maybe two people wide by three people deep. I could touch the ceiling with the palm of my hand, if I stood on my tip toes.

The size might have meant it could be classified as a shack. But were shacks buildings? And if they were, what about buildings that were worse than shacks? 

Hovels? This place sort of qualified as a hovel. It certainly smelled like one.

The building’s four walls were shoddy wood-and-plaster things that only counted as walls because they stood mostly upright and had holes that could, technically, be windows. They were irregularly shaped and placed, however, and stood open to the elements. There was no denying that they were just holes, though.

I assumed that, if questioned, the landlord would say something about natural sunlight (even though the place was scrunched in between two other buildings and you could barely see the sky from the alleyway between them, nevertheless from the actual window) or cozy atmosphere, so I didn’t bother asking.

The wooden floor that spanned the single room was covered in a film of old, soiled dirt and hay, almost like this place had been used as a chicken coop. There were no signs of droppings from any kind of bird, but interspersed between the clumps of hay were piles of what could have been rat pellets. 

And something smelled... musty? Like the smell of the ground after a rain, if it were only raining on a mangy dog that had eaten nothing but mushrooms for four weeks and had shat them across his haunches. I didn't quite know where it was coming from, but I really didn’t want to find out either.

The landlord was absolutely no help. When I asked about the state of the place, he told me I couldn't find a better place in town. Like I didn't already know that.

The town of Mystic Falls had been disappointing from the moment I stepped through the lopsided gates. Between guards that searched a little too vigorously, the beggars in the street that wouldn't take no for an answer, and the putrid, rubbish filled roads that were lined with dirty houses and dirtier people, I had decided instantly that I didn’t like this place.

But when you’re broke, you have very little choice.

Especially when you're only a level one chef. Trying to open a restaurant. 

While being in debt to some of the world’s most notorious creditors.

I was screwed.

With a heavy groan I stepped forward to get a better perspective of the place. 

The floor groaned too. 

It had a nice, deep baritone to it, one that spoke of rotten beams and termites. And likely some storage room below us that would be full of spiders and spoiled food. 

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

I’d seen enough. Honestly. It was pretty apparent I was going to die in this place if I didn’t leave now.

Which meant that it was perfect. 

There was no way this place would be out of my price range. You know. What limited price range I had. 

I'd visited other places in town. The ones that were willing to host an eatery were way far and above what I could afford to pay. And some of them had honestly been worse than this. 

“I’ll take it,” I said without turning around to address the dumpy little fat man behind me. 

“Dontcha wanna see the property before you make a decision?" There was a pregnant pause. "Wait… what?” The landlord sounded shocked as if he were expecting me to walk away instead of make an offer. It took him a moment to really grasp what I said. “That’s… there’s…”

“I’ll take it,” I said again, now turning around.

God, he was ugly. 

He was even uglier when his eyes were bulging out of their sockets.

The landlord, a Mister Roger Phelps, was about a foot and a half shorter than I was, and I wasn’t exactly a tall man. He had a round face that was dominated by large lips like two dead carp vying for the best place to bleach in the sun. His unmoisturized, overly sun-exposed skin seemed to be somewhere between the texture of molded leather and pickled horse anus. And he wore the most ridiculous open throat shirt I’d ever seen on a man. It looked like something one would see at a burlesque show, with leather laces strapped across his chest, binding together two tiny flaps of white cloth at the shoulders. It traveled in a deep V shape down his torso, ending just before the navel. 

And every inch of that exposed skin was covered in tiny curly hair that was the color of uncooked carrots.

Phelps was bald, but his chest hair gave a clear view of what he’d looked like in his younger days.

I was staring at this man’s chest.

But I couldn’t stop. The little red hairs were hypnotizing.

Enchanting.

“Now there, Mister Emerson,” he started, and I shook myself out of my stare. When he tried to speak again, I held up a hand to stop him.

“Please. Call me Harper. My father was Mister Emerson and he’s dead now.”

He wasn’t. My old man was still alive and kicking. But I greatly enjoyed the pause that gave people.

“Er, sure. So, now, Mister Harper…”

“Just Harper. Well, not ‘Just’. Harper. Period. Singular word. No honorifics before or after. I’m a very simple man, after all.” I spread my arms and gestured at myself.

He didn’t seem impressed.

I didn’t blame him.

It had been weeks since I’d seen bath water. Between the walking and occasional pitty carriage rides, I’d seen plenty of rain, however. 

Oh god, was I what smelled that bad?

I sniffed at my armpit, and instantly regretted it. 

Have you ever licked the underside of a raccoon? Well, I have. And it smelled about as pleasant as that tasted.

(And, in case you’re wondering, that was for a quest. A really shitty quest that I did not get enough reward for completing, but when life gives you quests you fucking do the quests. Something, anything, was better than nothing.)

Phelps was staring at me, and I realized he had been for some time. “Er, sorry. Did you say something?”

“Are you sure you’ll be wanting to buy this property? I don’t mean to discourage a man of your obvious taste, but Mystic Falls ain’t exactly hurting for eateries.”

I'd only seen a handful in my time around town, but he wasn't wrong. The town wasn't huge, but I'd been to so many towns before it. Mystic Falls was the furthest I could get from Duncan without crawling into the ocean and trying to see if I could float my way to a new land that wasn't full of lenders trying to take every bit of coin in the world all for themselves.

“I’m certain,” I said, firmly. “It was the place my grandfather immigrated from, and now that he’s gone from this world I want to do right by him and settle down in his hometown. Make something of myself.”

“Ain’t you said it was your father who died?”

“Makes no difference, my good man. One dead relative is as good as any other.” Before he could think too hard on that, I barrelled forward. “So, do we have a deal?”