A Craving That Crosses Realms

The subsequent days settled into a predictable pattern. True to her word, the princess made her visits a near-daily ritual. Her first act of charity was to provide a change of clothes: a pair of trousers of exceptional quality and a matching blouse. The material felt silken against my skin, a forgotten luxury, though the garish golden embroidery that adorned the garments seemed jarringly out of place within the grim confines of my cell. Still, having been shirtless since my arrival, I took the offering without a word of protest.

After that, she began to bring me food, embarking on a personal crusade to dazzle me with her world’s culinary arts after I had casually mentioned the sheer variety of cuisine back on Terra. An idea began to germinate in my mind: if tales of food could procure such delicacies, perhaps descriptions of Terra’s sweeping vistas might earn me a view of the world beyond these stone walls.

Our conversations grew more profound, and I found myself developing an unexpected closeness to her. In the last two days, she had started to confide in me, speaking of her life, her family, and particularly her older sisters, for whom she held the utmost admiration. Her first and second sisters, she explained, were both kind and noble-hearted—remarkably down-to-earth for their royal station—while her third sister was a tomboy who doted on her more than anyone. Despite having different mothers, their sisterly bond was, by her account, unshakable.

A profound sense of relief washed through me, learning that this young princess was anchored by such a strong network of support. Even if they were currently away, they were not lost to her forever. They would undoubtedly find their way back to one another.

Our budding friendship thus became a culinary expedition. I sampled a cake crafted from herbal extracts that left the pleasant warmth of fine liquor on the tongue; a hot, mint-infused beverage she called “Pallana,” which she proudly announced was a staple drink in her world; and a fruit shaped like a mango that tasted of watermelon but possessed the strangely dense texture of durian. Each offering was a novel and exotic adventure for my palate.

The exchange, however, was entirely one-sided. She was perpetually the purveyor of her world’s sustenance, and I could never convince her to try anything of mine—not that I possessed anything to offer. One day, I thought, I would have her try something from Terra. The pride she took in her mint drink was tangible, and I couldn't help but think she’d be equally intrigued by my world’s most popular beverages. I wondered what she might make of a simple cola. Perhaps I could even deduce a way to carbonate a drink here.

Inevitably, thoughts of food steered my mind back to Boss Ren’s pizza. I had been in this realm for eight nights now. My abrupt vanishing act must have driven him half-mad with worry. I could only pray he was taking care of himself. With Don and Timmy still around to help manage the pizzeria and run deliveries, the business itself should have been fine.

Boss Ren’s pizza was mediocre, objectively speaking, but it held a specific kind of comfort that I now found myself yearning for. It was never the best I’d ever eaten, but it was always generously loaded with toppings, infused with a cozy, handmade quality. “If we can’t afford expensive ingredients, we’ll just use more of the cheap ones to make up for it!” That was Boss Ren’s straightforward philosophy at Papa Ren’s Pizzeria, a creed born from the necessities of a humble budget.

Boss Ren, I thought, I’m sorry for leaving you without a word. He had been an immense help when I’d first landed in Brookland years ago, giving me not just employment, but a roof over my head.

Lying on the hard prison cot, my mind drifted through a gallery of old memories—the day I first met Boss Ren, and even earlier moments that stirred the shadows of my troubled, violent past.

“Boss Ren’s pizza… I just want one last slice.”

The thought was almost a prayer.

Dziiing

What?

Vroaaam

What the hell—? A shimmering distortion had materialized in the middle of my cell, a gleaming tear in the air that looked like a gateway to another place. It spun like a languid, cosmic vortex, its surface glossy and almost liquid. I had to admit, it was captivating. But what on Earth was it?

I waited, but nothing emerged. The rift simply hung there, humming with a quiet, ethereal resonance as it rotated. The void within it appeared identical from every angle.

Curiosity finally eclipsing caution, I reached out to touch it.

Psuu

The sound effects in my head were becoming absurd. I pressed my finger into what felt like viscous water, yet my hand emerged perfectly dry. A better description might be pushing through the membrane of a thick soap bubble, or perhaps dipping one’s hand into a pool of mercury.

I plunged my hand in deeper. The sensation was electrifying, a strange, ticklish feeling that was, I conceded, addictively pleasant. What is this thing? I mused. After another minute of probing with no adverse effects, I grew confident that it posed no threat. I decided I would push my face through and see what was on the other side.

Still, a sliver of caution held me back. I tore my bedsheet into strips, twisting them into a crude rope and anchoring one end to the cell bars. There would be no repeat of my fall from the rooftop. I knotted the other end securely around my wrist, my right hand gripping it tight.

After a final test with my left hand, I carefully fed my entire arm through the portal. The atmosphere on the other side was a startling contrast—dry and alive, with a gentle breeze caressing my skin. I felt around, searching for any solid object, but my hand met only empty space. Not a bad sign. Next, I aimed for the floor. My fingers brushed against a surface that was rough, flat, and unyielding. It had the distinct texture of sun-baked stone.

Everything seemed stable. There was a floor and breathable air on the other side, not an endless void. Taking a deep breath, I held it and, shielding my face with my left hand, cautiously thrust my head through the anomaly.

“…”

The light was blinding. After several moments, my eyes adjusted, and the scene swam into focus. It was daytime here. I wasn't staring at a sun inside the portal, but out into a location I recognized instantly—the small alley behind Boss Ren’s shop, the one he used as a makeshift garage.

I glanced up at the partly cloudy sky. The initial glare was simply the stark difference between bright daylight and my dim dungeon. I slapped my own cheek, then pinched my arm, needing confirmation that this wasn't some elaborate hallucination.

“…” I was utterly speechless.

“No way… No damn way! I’m back? I can just… return? Just like that?” I instantly let go of the rope and lunged for the opening.

“Ah—huh?” I had forgotten it was still tied to my wrist. I scrambled my entire body through the portal and hastily worked the knot free.

“Hehehehe! I’m free! I don’t know how, but I’m free! What a miracle!” A wide, incredulous grin split my face.

As I savored my newfound liberty, I glanced back at the portal. It remained, hovering in the air. An idea began to take shape. If this tear in reality remained open long enough, I could introduce the young princess to some of Terra’s culinary treasures. The first thing that came to mind was Boss Ren’s pizza. For objective, comparative purposes, of course. It wasn’t because I was craving it myself; it was a calculated strategy to start with something humble before working our way up to the truly exceptional fare. That was definitely the reason.

But that could wait. For now, I had to get a handle on the situation here. Had a week also passed on Terra? What had transpired in my absence?

I headed into the shop to find Boss Ren. I had no idea what excuse I would offer him, but that was irrelevant. The most critical thing was to let him know I was safe.

The pizzeria was empty. An unnerving stillness had settled over the space, replacing the familiar, chaotic rhythm of a working kitchen. It was still daylight; the shop should have been open. Something was profoundly wrong. The kitchen was cold and barren, with no dough proofing. If Boss Ren, Don, or Timmy had merely stepped out, there would be signs of recent work.

Nothing. No one. The place felt bleak and abandoned. A visible layer of dust coated every surface, and spiderwebs laced the corners. There were no supplies, no ingredients, not even any cooking utensils. The shop looked as though it had been deserted for much longer than a few days.

I didn’t understand. What was going on?

I decided to ask around. The front door was locked, the key absent from its usual hiding place, so I slipped out through a side window.

“Seriously, why is the shop abandoned?” I muttered to myself. “Are they out searching for me?” It sounded plausible, knowing Boss Ren’s character. I considered another, darker possibility but forced it from my mind. They wouldn't. They wouldn't risk that.

Around the corner, I saw Crazy Mo, an old homeless veteran with more than a few screws loose. You could hold a conversation with him, but it often spiraled into bizarre tangents about government conspiracies and aliens. Still, he rarely strayed from his spot; if anyone knew what had happened to the shop, it would be him.

I slipped into the easy, streetwise cadence of the neighborhood. “Yo, Crazy Mad Dog Mo!”

He glanced up, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Hey, man. How’s it hanging? Say, you know what’s been going down around here? Specifically with Boss Ren’s pizzeria.”

He took a long moment before answering, his eyes fixated on my clothes—or more specifically, the garish embroidery. “Nice shirt,” he said, his destitute spirit flaring with a sudden, intense fascination.

“Oh, this? You like it? Tell me what’s been happening, and it’s all yours.” I pulled the shirt off and handed it to him. The fabric felt expensive, but it served me no purpose. He snatched it, his eyes wide, like a child unearthing a pirate’s treasure.

“Now,” I said firmly. “The information.”

“Oh, info, yeah yeah,” he replied with a broad grin. “I know what’s up.” I hoped his lucidity would hold long enough for a straight answer.

“Benjamin’s been going through a rough patch.”

Okay. I listened intently.

“He was real down in the dumps at first. Real sad, you know.”

“…”

“I asked him why the long face, and he told me he’d lost a son. Again. Been around here a long time, and I never knew he had a son. Uh-huh.”

A knot of dread tightened in my gut.

“Then, the very next day, some serious-looking fellas in black suits showed up and took him away. They were bad news, man, I’m tellin’ ya. Dragged poor Benjamin into a car—or was it a truck? Hold on, what was it again?”

“It doesn’t matter what kind of car!” I snapped, my patience fraying. “Do you know where they took him? Or at least which way they went?” This was serious. I had considered this possibility, but I never imagined it would happen just because I was gone for a week.

Startled, Crazy Mo stammered, “Well, uh, um, I don’t know where they took him.”

This was bad. I had to find him.

His next words, however, struck me like a blast of ice water. “But I do know he came back. Yesterday. Same guys brought him back. Ren looked even worse. He wasn’t beaten up or nothin’, but I could tell—ooh, it couldn’t escape my keen senses—he was hurting deep down inside. Real, real bad.”

Relief, potent and immediate, flooded me. The boss was okay. Hurting, but physically unharmed. The worst-case scenario had been averted. But those men… they had dared. I would have to tug on some old strings again. I forcibly suppressed the darkness surging within me and focused on Mo’s story.

“From what I overheard, he’s heading to the cemetery today. To visit his son’s grave. Was wearing all black and everything. Though, he’s already black, hehe. Hehe, hehe.”

He tacked on a stupid joke at the end. The man was definitely unhinged.

Boss Ren was going to the cemetery? His son… A deep sense of foreboding settled over me. His family wasn’t buried in Brookland. I refused to entertain what that might imply. I had to see for myself.

Leaving Crazy Mo to admire his new shirt, I broke into a dead run, heading straight for the cemetery.