A woman in a merchant's apron paused at his stall, picking up one of the bottles. Her nose wrinkled as she examined the simple cork stopper.

"These seem... different from what I usually buy."

"They're brewed fresh this morning." Fendrel straightened his posture. "I use bluecap mushrooms and petaline herbs, traditional-"

But she had already moved on, strolling to the stall across the square, where clear bottles gleamed beneath an embroidered awning.

The morning dragged. People hurried past, their eyes sliding over his modest display. A few stopped to look, but none stayed to buy. Across the way, a line formed at Merchant Kella's stall, her reputation drawing customers despite charging triple his prices.

A man in worker's clothes picked up one of Fendrel's potions, frowning at the lighter shade. "Bit weak-looking, isn't it?"

"The color varies based on brewing temperature. These are just as effective-"

"Can you do a silver piece per?" The man asked

Fendrel's jaw clenched. "I'm already selling almost at brewing cost."

The man shrugged and walked away.

His fingers drummed against his knee as he watched another potential customer drift away. This is a waste of time, and I need another dose before the sun goes down.

----------------------------------------

Fendrel slumped onto his workbench stool, the unsold healing potions clinking as he set them down. The red liquid caught the afternoon light streaming through his grimy window - mocking him with their perfect color and complete worthlessness.

He rubbed his temples, fighting back a headache. The morning's failure burned in his gut. Without proper equipment or an established name, he'd never compete with the legitimate alchemists. Their crystal-clear bottles and fancy labels drew customers like moths to flame, while his crude cork-stoppered vials gathered dust.

The parasite's status message flickered at the edge of his vision:

[PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 4 hours

His fingers traced the edge of his alchemy workbook. Each new brew, potion or poison added to his experience, bringing him closer to leveling his class. But that progress came with the parasite leveling alongside his alchemy class, demanding more concoctions to keep it from taking over, or killing him.

"The more I do, the worse it gets," he muttered.

The thought of sourcing increasingly rare ingredients made his stomach churn. Already he struggled to afford the components for basic poisons. What happened when the parasite required rare materials? Or worse, ingredients that could only be obtained through questionable means, or not at all?

Fendrel's gaze drifted to his equipment - the battered copper pot, the basic burner, the mismatched collection of measuring tools. Keeping up with the parasite's growing demands would strain his finances past breaking point.

Maybe I should stop brewing anything besides what keeps it contained, he thought. Stick to poisons, sell them quiet, I can just keep selling to those who approached me so far. When is the black hooded guy coming though?

The black market seemed discrete enough, and their coin spent just as well as any other merchant's.

A sharp knock echoed through the lab, cutting through Fendrel's thoughts. His muscles tensed. The sound came again, three precise raps against the wooden door.

He glanced at his workbench. Half-finished potions lay scattered across its surface, ingredients spread out in plain view. The knocker struck again.

Fendrel swept the most incriminating materials into a drawer and approached the door. "Who's there?"

No answer came. Just another knock, somehow more insistent than before.

He cracked the door open, chain still latched. A hooded figure stood in the dim hallway, wrapped in a deep blue cloak that obscured their features. The stranger's head tilted, regarding him through the gap.

"Fendrel Solinar?" The voice was neutral, neither male nor female.

"Who wants to know?"

The figure produced a sealed envelope from within their cloak. The parchment bore an unfamiliar mark - a serpent wrapped around a chalice.

"Your reputation precedes you," the courier said, extending the letter through the gap.

Fendrel's fingers trembled as he broke the seal. The message inside was written in flowing script:

Your skills have not gone unnoticed. We offer resources, protection, and a permanent place among those who appreciate true talent. Tomorrow night. The Red Barrel tavern. Come alone.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

It bore the same serpent-and-chalice insignia as the seal.

His mouth went dry.

"This is someone new," Fendrel whispered to himself.

"There are other interested parties in this city." The courier's tone remained mild, but something in their posture shifted. "Parties who don't appreciate rejection."

"I already have... arrangements."

"Then I suggest you consider rearranging them." The courier's head tilted again, hood still concealing their features. "Some offers aren't meant to be refused."

Fendrel's grip tightened on the letter. He'd heard stories of what happened to people caught between rival criminal organizations. None of them ended well.

"I'll consider it."

"See that you do more than consider." The courier stepped back into the shadows. "Tomorrow night. Don't disappoint them."

Fendrel stared at the closed door, the courier's footsteps fading down the allyway. The letter weighed in his hand like lead. He sank into his worn chair, running his thumb over the serpent-and-chalice seal. The wax crumbled at his touch, scattering red fragments across the floor.

The lab's familiar scents - herbs, smoke, and chemical tang - offered no comfort now. Each breath felt heavy, as if the air itself pressed down on his shoulders. He spread the letter on his workbench, studying the flowing script. The words hadn't changed, but their implications grew darker with each reading.

His fingers drummed against the wooden surface. Fendrel had little idea about the different groups running the underworld of the city. He heard enough stories about how they operated with predictable brutality. But these groups approaching him with their fancy seals and formal invitations? They represented something more far more sinister.

[PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 3 hours

Fendrel barked out a harsh laugh. The creature inside him demanded poison while forces outside conspired to drag him deeper into the city's shadows. He'd tried to stay invisible, brewing just enough to survive. But each sale had left a trail, each transaction forming links in a chain that now threatened to strangle him.

He crumpled the letter in his fist. What choice did he have? Refuse, and make enemies of people powerful enough to track him to his door? Accept, and bind himself tighter to the criminal world he'd never meant to enter?

The answer settled over him like a shroud. He smoothed out the letter, folding it carefully before tucking it into his vest pocket. Tomorrow night, he would go to the Red Barrel. He would listen to their offer. Because in this game he'd stumbled into, survival meant playing by their rules.

----------------------------------------

The Red Barrel's wooden door creaked as Fendrel pushed it open. Stale beer and pipe smoke hung thick in the air. A handful of patrons hunched over their drinks, faces hidden in shadow. None looked up as he entered.

He chose a corner table, back to the wall, keeping the door in view. His fingers traced the worn grooves in the wooden tabletop while he waited. The tavern's few candles cast more shadows than light, leaving dark corners where anyone might lurk.

A figure materialized from the gloom, sliding into the seat across from him. The stranger's deep blue cloak matched the one worn by yesterday's courier, but this was clearly a different person - broader shoulders, different posture.

"Fendrel Solinar." The voice was male, rough like stones grinding together. "I'm Borin."

"You have me at a disadvantage."

"That's the point." Borin's hood shifted slightly. "Let's discuss business."

"Your organization-"

"Doesn't need to be named." Borin's hand emerged from his cloak, fingers drumming on the table. "We have interests throughout the city. Interests that require... specialized services."

Fendrel swallowed hard. "What kind of services?"

"We need something subtle. A poison that works gradually - days, maybe weeks. Something that looks like natural illness." Borin leaned forward. "For insurance purposes, you understand. Certain individuals need proper motivation to cooperate."

The implications made Fendrel sweat. This wasn't about killing enemies - it was about control. Keeping people in line with the threat of a slow, painful death.

"The payment would be substantial," Borin continued. "And our protection extends to those who prove useful."

Fendrel's stomach churned. He'd crossed lines brewing poisons, but this felt different. This wasn't just killing - it was torture, manipulation, destroying lives piece by piece.

Fendrel's fingers traced particularly deep grove in the table. "A slow-acting poison isn't simple. The ingredients are rare, expensive. And the brewing process requires precise control."

"Money isn't an issue." Borin placed a heavy pouch on the table. The coins clinked softly against each other. "Consider this a down payment. Triple that amount upon delivery."

Is this fucker for real? Fendrel though before opening his mouth, "how am I going to walk out of here with this?" he kept his voice low.

"Our people are everywhere." Borin's hood tilted. "No one will trouble you while you work for us."

Fendrel's stomach twisted. If he buys the ingredients for another batch of toxin he would pretty much run out of coin. But slow poison meant watching people waste away, knowing he'd caused their suffering.

"I'll need some time," he said. "Getting more components without raising suspicion-"

"Take what time you need. Quality matters more than speed." Borin pushed the coin pouch closer. "Do we have an agreement?"

Fendrel picked up the pouch, feeling its weight. The metal felt warm against his palm, promising security, survival. These guys pay better.

"Yes," he said. "We have an agreement."

"Good." Borin stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "Remember - discretion is essential. We'll contact you when we need the first batch."

Back in his cramped lab, Fendrel collapsed onto his bed, his mind racing from the meeting. He pulled out his worn notebook, focusing on the parasite's status window. The familiar text flickered before him:

[PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 2 hours

He closed his eyes, concentrating on the presence within him. [I know you can understand. You know what I need. Show me something useful.]

Minutes passed. The silence stretched until his muscles grew stiff. Just as he was about to give up, new text appeared:

[WITHERBLOOM INFUSION TOXIN]

* Shadowroot Extract, 3 drops

* Witherbloom Mushroom Powder, 5 grams

* Bloodthorn Resin, 2 grams

* Spiderling Venom, 1 drop

* Crushed ashroot, 2 grams

Fendrel's eyes widened. The parasite had actually responded with what he needed - a slow-acting toxin. His momentary triumph faded as he read through the ingredients again.

"Shit." He ran his fingers through his hair. Shadowroot only grew in the dark forests beyond the city walls. Witherbloom mushrooms were strictly controlled by the Alchemists' Guild. Bloodthorn... he'd no clue where to even begin looking for that. Not in his district for sure.

The spiderling venom and ashroot were simple enough, but the rest meant for him to venture out of the city.

Fendrel paced his small room. He could try leaving the city, but the forests were crawling with creatures that would happily tear him apart. Hiring someone else to gather the ingredients might work, but that meant trusting others with knowledge of what he was looking for.