In a dingy pub buried deep within the slums of forest Hill City, the air reeked of spilled beer and sweat. Michael slouched over a pint of ale, his bandaged wrist and fingers throbbing beneath layers of poorly wrapped cloth. The pain was there, but in his drunken haze, it was just a dull throb, lost in a cloud of bitterness. Across from him sat Simon, his closest companion, equally disillusioned and full of resentment. The two of them were bound together by a shared sense of failure and misfortune, each drowning in their own misery.

Michael's voice wavered, cracking as he slurred his words, his tone thick with bitterness. "Simon… my life… it's ruined," he mumbled, eyes unfocused and glassy. His trembling fingers clutched the mug, ale spilling over the edge as he took another shaky swig. "No money, no woman… nothing! It's all gone!" His voice grew more desperate, almost pleading. "That damn king… he took everything from me!"

Simon leaned back, a bitter smirk playing on his lips as he eyed Michael with narrowed, calculating eyes. "Took it, or lost it… makes no difference in this cesspool of a world, does it? If you were some rich noble, you wouldn't have this problem," he sneered, his voice thick with cynicism. "Face it—you weren't exactly rolling in gold from the start, were you?" He took a slow, deliberate sip from his mug, watching Michael's misery with a mix of pity and disdain.

Michael, however, was too far gone to notice Simon's tone. He laughed bitterly, his voice breaking as he tried to hold back tears. "That woman… ha! How I miss… ordering her around! She did everything I said… and now... nothing!" His pathetic sobs filled the air as he slumped over the table, face buried in his arms, his shoulders shaking. "Why me, Simon? Why always me?" he wailed, his voice filled with a childlike helplessness.

Simon's lips curled into a humorless smile, his bitterness seeping into every word. "It's always us, Michael. It's always people like us. We don't get to win." He spat the words like they were a bad taste in his mouth. "We're just meant to scrape by, drink ourselves into oblivion, and die in some back alley while the king gets fat off the taxes we can't even afford to pay." His voice was calm but simmered with deep, festering anger.

Michael looked up, his face streaked with tears, but there was no fight left in him. He raised his mug again, his hand trembling even more now. "To us, Simon… the forgotten..." he muttered, clinking his mug weakly against Simon's before downing the rest of his ale. His words were hollow, lacking any real conviction.

Simon simply grunted, staring down into his own drink. "Yeah... to us."

Simon leaned back in his chair, sipping from his mug, his brown skin weathered from years of hard labor, though he carried the same disheveled look as Michael. His tone was casual, yet his words dripped with bitterness. "I hear you, brother. World's gone to hell, no question." He gave a sarcastic scoff. "Demi-humans treated like us? Magical beasts walking free like they're nobles? The king's lost it, I swear. You know the rumors—he's been screwing a goblin. That's why everything's different."

Michael let out a dry, humorless laugh, his words slurred. "Nah, nah. It wasn't no goblin. I heard it was an ogre, fat as a damn hippo! HA! HA! HA!" His laughter quickly turned bitter, twisting into a sneer. "But...what am I gonna do, Simon? To Heal my arm? The healers said five hundred gold! Five hundred! My bones... they're crushed." His voice broke, sliding back into pathetic self-pity as he clutched his bandaged hand. "Where am I supposed to get that kinda money? Wahh…"

Simon shook his head, a flicker of disgust passing over his face before he masked it with a false sense of sympathy. "It's a rough world, Michael. You're just a barber, and me? Just a laborer. We don't get chances. We just keep scraping by while the rich fat bastards get richer." He paused, leaning in slightly as if to let his words sting a little deeper. "I hear some nobles still got slaves hidden away. You think anyone cares? Of course not."

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Michael's face twisted with frustration and anger, his eyes narrowing. "I miss the old days... and Maria." His voice dropped, turning vile. "She had a nice body. Spent all I had on that bitch, and now I can't even get close to her." He slammed his fist on the table. "And it's all because of that other wench…"

Simon raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a sly grin. "You mean the Flaming Bull? I heard she left town. Off hunting some adventurer."

Michael's wicked grin returned, his eyes lighting up with a cruel gleam. "Oh, really? Maybe now's my chance... I should go over and give Maria a good time while I still can."

Simon slammed his mug down hard on the table, his voice dropping to a dangerous low, filled with sharp warning. "You're a damned fool, Michael. Don't be stupid. What's gonna happen when she comes back? You'll be lucky if you're only castrated."

Michael's grin faltered, frustration bubbling up again. "I'll run. I'll leave before she gets back, far away. I'm not an idiot."

Simon leaned in closer, his voice smooth, almost taunting. "You think an S-rank adventurer can't track you down? She hunts criminals for sport, Michael. You'd be dead by the end of the week." His words were like ice, cutting through the haze of alcohol.

Michael sat back, face tightening as he mulled over Simon's words. But his anger flared again, clouding his judgment. "Then what? Am I just supposed to sit here and let her win? If I can't have Maria, no one can."

Simon's chuckle was dark, laced with amusement. "You're missing the point, Michael. It's not Maria you want." His eyes gleamed with a twisted kind of wisdom. "What you really want is your old life back. If you could afford a younger, prettier slave, would you even care about Maria anymore?"

Michael paused, his face lighting up at the thought, his desperation feeding into the fantasy. "A younger one, huh? A new slave? I wouldn't give a damn about Maria. I'd die a happy man with something younger... tighter."

Simon's grin widened, his voice slipping into a sly, devious tone. "Then we get out of this dump. We move where the king's laws don't mean a thing. There are countries that still deal in slaves, places where we could live like kings ourselves."

Michael snorted, shaking his head. "Sounds like a fantasy. Where the hell are we supposed to get the money for that?"

Simon's grin widened, his eyes sparkling with twisted excitement that betrayed his dark thoughts. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Ever heard of the Vassal Suppliers? They've been lurking around here for about three years, running their sick operation right under our noses. Even when slavery was made illegal, they didn't care. In fact, they ramped up their operations, taking advantage of the chaos. I hear their base is hidden deep in the Great Forest outside the city—where the shadows swallow everything whole."

He paused for effect, letting the weight of his words sink in before continuing. "And their leader? A terrifying bastard named Nightowl—a vampire. You can bet he doesn't take kindly to anyone crossing him. He's a monster who thrives in the dark, and he's got a taste for the rare and the valuable."

Michael visibly shuddered at the mention of vampires but quickly composed himself. "A vampire? Aren't those monsters supposed to be dangerous? What do we have to offer?"

Simon pressed on, unfazed by Michael's fear. "They pay top coin for information. Turns out, mixed-blood kids--just like yours—are prized in the vampire world. Worth more than gold, they say. All we need to do is tip them off."

Michael's brow furrowed in thought, his mind racing with the implications. "So, you're saying we just give Nightowl the info? We don't have to get our hands dirty? That's actually a perfect plan! If anything goes wrong, it'll all fall on this Nightowl guy."

Simon nodded, his wicked smile growing. "Exactly. We sell them out, make a fortune, and we're out of this shithole before the Flaming Bull even knows what happened. If she investigates, she'll never trace it back to us. We just disappear into the shadows, leaving those monsters to take the fall."

A twisted grin spread across Michael's face, the prospect of wealth intoxicating him. "But... Maria and the kids... they'd be killed."

Simon shrugged, indifferent. "Most likely. But what do you care? You said it yourself—you're done with them. You just want the money."

Michael thought for a moment, greed overtaking his hesitation. "You're right. Who cares? I could buy a blonde this time... or maybe a fiery redhead. Ha! Ha! Let's go meet these slavers and cash in!"

With the plan solidified, the air around them felt electric with possibility and danger, as they prepared to plunge into the dark underbelly of Forest Hill City.