Umm, applying for a job?

Morning arrived without a sound. The sky over Elarion stretched like a gray canvas untouched by brush. In a modest inn on the edge of the village, Maros opened his eyes. Not hurried. Not startled. Just opened—like a mechanism programmed to wake.

He sat up in bed, letting the cold air brush against his skin. No ominous feeling. No dreams. Just the awareness that today was another day—and that was enough.

In the corner of the room, a shadow began to move. Not because of light, but because of presence. Shadow appeared, as always, without footsteps, without a defined shape. It didn’t greet him. It didn’t offer pleasantries. It simply existed.

Shadow: “Elarion remains the same. Cities that shine, villages that rot slowly. They call it civilization. I call it an illusion that costs too much.”

Maros didn’t respond. He stood and walked to a small table in the corner. On it: a cracked mirror, a wooden comb, and a small metal box. He opened the box. Inside: a silver wig, light cosmetics, and a clean but cheap servant’s outfit.

Shadow: “The Pagos family. Not nobles. Not criminals. Something in between—bar owners, servant handlers, mood managers. They sell comfort and buy control.”

Maros picked up the wig, stared at it for a moment, then put it on. Silver strands fell over his shoulders, softening his silhouette. He took an eyebrow pencil and drew thin lines to make his eyes appear larger, more innocent.

Shadow: “They’re looking for a new servant. A girl, they said. Someone who can smile without reason, serve without question, and attract attention without threatening it.”

Maros dressed. A white blouse with a small ribbon at the collar, fitted black shorts, and polished leather shoes. He looked at himself in the mirror. Not Maros. But not someone else either. Just a version that could be used.

Shadow: “You’re going to apply?”

Maros grabbed a small bag, packed the comb and a light powder. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Outside, the sound of cart wheels began to echo. The village was waking. But no one knew that today, someone would enter their system. Not to work. But to observe. To record. To change.

Maros opened the door and stepped out. Shadow followed—not as a companion, but as a presence that knew too much.

On the street, people began their routines. Bread sellers opened their stalls, children ran, and workers prepared for the day. Maros walked slowly, not drawing attention, but just noticeable enough to be seen. That was part of the plan.

Shadow: “Pagos Bar sits at the village center. Two stories, large windows, and a door that’s always open. They welcome everyone, but trust only a few.”

Maros didn’t quicken his pace. There was no need to rush. He knew that social systems weren’t broken by force, but by a presence that lingered long enough to be considered normal.

In the distance, the building came into view. Pagos Bar. Elegant, but not luxurious. Busy, but not chaotic. Servants moved in and out, carrying trays, smiling, laughing. But Maros knew—behind those smiles, there was hierarchy. Surveillance. Weakness.

He stopped at the door. Not hesitant. Not nervous. Just still.

Shadow: “First step. Enter. Work. Stay quiet. Watch.”

Maros opened the door and stepped inside.

Maros’s steps into the bar made no sound. The old wooden floor absorbed his weight as if it had long grown used to strangers. The air was thick with the scent of light alcohol and cheap perfume. Soft music drifted from a corner, played by a violinist who didn’t smile.

The room was full, but not crowded. Round tables were spaced evenly, each occupied by two or three people. Some laughed, some sat in silence, staring into their glasses. Waiters moved between them, dressed in similar uniforms—white and black, with small ribbons at their collars. Some smiled. Some only pretended.

Maros stood near the entrance, unmoving. He let his eyes do the work. In the far right corner, an old man sat alone, wearing a thick coat despite the mild weather. At the center table, a group of young men spoke too loudly, saying nothing. Near the bar, a woman with red hair arranged bottles with movements too precise to be casual.

Shadow: “They’re used to noise. But not to stillness. You are a disruption they haven’t noticed yet.”

A waiter approached. His face was young, likely not yet twenty. His smile was wide, but his eyes were tired.

Waiter: “Welcome to Pagos Bar. If you’re a guest, feel free to sit. If you’re here to apply… go to the back table, near the stairs.”

Maros nodded slightly and walked in the direction he was shown. The table was empty, with a single chair and an open ledger. Behind it stood a man in a gray suit and round glasses. His face was clean, but not friendly.

Man with Glasses: “Name?”

Maros didn’t answer immediately. He studied the man for a moment, then spoke in a voice softer than usual.

Maros: “Marissa.”

The man wrote something in the ledger. “Age?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Experience?”

“Worked at a small bar up north. Served guests, managed tables, sometimes sang.”

The man paused. He looked up at Maros and asked quietly, “Why do you want to work here?”

Maros returned the gaze. No smile. No nerves. “Because I know this place doesn’t just need servers. It needs observers.”

The man didn’t respond. He simply closed the ledger and pointed to the stairs. “Upstairs. Change clothes. You start tonight.”

Maros nodded and walked toward the staircase. Shadow followed, silent.

Upstairs, a narrow hallway led to the changing room. Inside, several servers were fixing their hair, checking mirrors, or chatting quietly. Maros didn’t greet anyone. He simply took a uniform from the rack and entered a small booth.

He changed with practiced movements. The uniform fit—not too tight, not too loose. He put on the silver wig, adjusted the ribbon at his collar, and looked into the mirror. The same face. But now, it belonged to the system.

Shadow: “First step complete. Now you’re part of them. But not theirs.”

Maros stepped out of the booth and returned to the first floor. The music still played. Laughter still echoed. But now, he was no longer an outsider. He was the new server. The sweet femboy. A smile for sale.

But behind that smile were eyes that recorded. A mind that calculated. A plan that would never be shared.

Behind the bar, Alice was arranging bottles with an almost obsessive precision. Her black hair was tied tightly, and her eyes were sharp—like a blade that hadn’t yet been used. Beside her, Vany was polishing glasses, but she talked more than she worked.

Vany: “That new server... Marissa, right? So sweet. But... something about her gives me chills. Like she knows everyone’s secrets.”

Alice (flat): “If she knows, she’ll stay quiet. If she talks, she’s a fool. We’ll see.”

Maros approached, picking up drinks for table seven. He didn’t interrupt. But he glanced at Vany briefly, then spoke softly.

Maros: “You’ve got good hands for crystal glassware. But you’re too fast. It’ll crack if you rush.”

Vany froze. She looked at the glass in her hand, then at Maros. Her face was confused, but touched.

Vany: “You... know a lot about glasses?”

Maros (with a faint smile): “I know a lot about fractures.”

Alice looked at Maros. Just a glance. Brief. But enough to show she was taking note.

“Alice: the obstacle. Vany: the entry point.”

That night, Maros began to play. He helped Vany with small tasks, gave compliments that sounded sincere—but always laced with subtle doubt.           

“You’re fast, Vany. But sometimes too fast.”

“You’re friendly, Vany. But don’t be too open.”

“The guests like you. But don’t let Alice think they like you more.”

Vany began to change. She started looking at Alice with a hint of rivalry. She began to wonder if Alice was sabotaging her work. She started relying on Maros for validation.

Shadow: “The first pawn begins to move. You didn’t force her. You simply held up a mirror. And they hate what they see.”

On the other side, Alice began to observe. She didn’t speak much, but she started tracking Maros’s movements. She knew something was off. But she didn’t yet know what shape it took.

“Alice: will become the opponent. But the best opponent is the one who still believes they control the game.”