Chapter 2: I Have a Son Now.

“You imbecile. You useless waste of space. Do you have any idea the extent of the damages you’ve caused?”

Wil remained placid. On the other end of the line, the dressing-down droned on, chewing the cud of his failures with the relentless dedication of a cow afflicted with obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Inside his head, a hurricane of fury was rattling its cage, preparing to tear the door off its hinges. But he knew this game inside and out. He could let it roar all it wanted in there; he could imagine one hundred and one ways to turn the person on the other end of the line into a decorative smear on the wall, as long as he didn’t let that madness escape through his larynx.

The chip, a diligent little warden with the intellectual capacity of a pebble, was programmed only to suppress acts of betrayal, not disrespectful thoughts. It wouldn’t jolt him unless he actually tried to say, “Listen here, you moron, if you’ve got the guts, come say that to my face.”

So he focused on other things. For instance, analysing the admirable monotony in the chewing of his imaginary cow. And trying to ignore the feeling of his fingernails wanting to burrow through the palms of his hands.

His superior continued in that same grating tone.

“You know the consequences of this. We’ve invested so much in you… Hundreds of billions of pims!”

Wil didn’t need to hear the rest to know what they were getting at. He was a puppet, a tool in their hands. Ten years of imprisonment and control had whittled him down to someone he no longer recognised. If someone were to ask, “Who is Wil?”, he’d probably have to look up his own file to answer.

His gaze drifted over the illusory firewall, constructed from a trillion binary digits. The cage. It didn’t just confine him; it defined him. Every bit of data, every line of code, was a reminder that he was a pet, and they, the masters, held absolute authority over what went into his bowl today.

Noticing Wil’s silence, the voice on the other end also stopped. Wil understood their mood perfectly. They were terrified of Sol Dawn’s reputation.

The man nicknamed the “Daytime Killer” had taken thousands of lives—police, civilians, and criminals alike. But his primary victims were corrupt officials and politicians. Some had even voluntarily turned themselves in to prison to escape his pursuit. Thus, the people of Trilium had a saying: “Not all officials are bad. But certainly, any official Sol Dawn goes after has a reason.”

The connection cut. Wil opened his eyes to the real world. Black hair fell across his brow, hiding his bloodshot eyes. A simple white shirt served as the perfect shell for a model citizen. It was just that, deep inside, the birth pangs of a new world had never truly ceased.

The office door swung open, and Jean breezed in, a veritable sunbeam in human form. Her piercing blue eyes sparkled, the kind of sparkle you only find in people who still believe in things like justice and a free lunch. She wore a snug white t-shirt under a dark blue police uniform jacket that was only carelessly buttoned.

“Why are you always wound so tight, Chief?” She placed a cup of coffee on Wil’s desk, the clink of porcelain shattering the heavy silence. “I made you a cup to help you get your spirits back.”

Wil took a sip. The coffee’s bitterness couldn’t drown out the familiar cacophony of the office. Dozens of figures in dark blue uniforms were hunched over keyboards, their typing a steady, monotonous rain on a tin roof. Phones rang incessantly—a chorus of promises and complaints that blended into a meaningless hum.

He glanced towards the whiteboard. A new case, a new tragedy, more red lines drawn to connect the unconnectable. Nearby, a few women from the administrative department were laughing about something. They could always find joy in the little things. A skill he’d misplaced somewhere along the way. He turned back to his computer screen. Professional. Focused. That’s what they needed from him.

“Thank you, Jean,” Wil replied, in that same even tone. He gave a slight nod, so subtle it was almost imperceptible, then swirled the cup on the desk, leaving a thin ring of moisture on the wood.

That’s right. This place wasn’t exactly a prison. It was also his second home.

His thoughts were interrupted by a timid voice. A young officer stood before his desk, wringing his cap in his hands, his face as pale as if he were reporting the apocalypse.

“Report, Chief… the recovery of R2 is nearly complete, but…”

He swallowed hard, forcing the words out.

“…The black box… is missing. As for the parts that washed ashore… well…”

Wil cut him off, his voice as cold as a blade.

“They were picked up by the locals and sold for scrap or jury-rigged into coffee makers, is that it? Just issue a public notice stating that it’s all national property. Anyone who doesn’t return it will be charged with obstruction.”

The young officer looked thoroughly flustered.

“But… sir, isn’t that a bit… Besides, if they’ve already sold it, how can we recover it?”
Wil sighed, a sigh heavy with exhaustion. The venom in his voice vanished, replaced by something that was almost… sympathy. He clapped the young man on the shoulder.
“It’ll be fine. Trust me.”

Leaving the pawn shop, Sabata didn’t go straight home. Holding this much money for the first time in his life, he felt a strange compulsion. Instead of returning to his familiar, musty alley, he turned into the bustling commercial district, where bright advertisements and luxury storefronts seemed to belong to another world entirely.

50,000 pims. A sum large enough to transform a life.

And Sabata used it to do precisely that.

He walked into a fashion boutique, not with the longing gaze of a child peering through the window, but as a customer. He chose a black and orange leather jacket, a form-fitting t-shirt, and a pair of black-framed sunglasses he thought looked cool. 30,000 pims for a new shell, a bargain for exorcising the flock of “cougars” he’d always dreaded.

Returning from the glittering commercial district was like stepping out of a dream and back into stark reality. The alley leading to the container park was as dark and damp as ever. Spring here only brought a light drizzle, just enough to make the stagnant puddles larger and the stench of garbage more pungent. The cold, damp air seeped through his brand-new leather jacket, a reminder that no matter what he wore, he still belonged here.

When he got back to his 25-square-metre room, the familiar smell of dampness seemed even more oppressive. Sabata didn’t hesitate to call an express cleaning and redecorating service. He tossed out the lumpy old mattress from the orphanage, where every night he could feel each spring digging into his skin. In its place went a brand-new bed, a white-painted wooden wardrobe, and a small table by the window.

A few hours later, with everything finished, Sabata stood before the mirror, his eyes sparkling with childish delight. He had transformed. So had the room.

“Fashion,” Sabata mused to himself, striking a bizarre pose as if from a JoJo manga. “Even the gloves only came as a single. Made no sense at all.”

He threw himself onto the new bedsheets, feeling true softness for the first time and wondering if this was the promise of dreamless sleep. But then, a primal anxiety crept into his mind. His eyes instinctively scanned the freshly painted corners. He hoped the rats and cockroaches weren’t interested in genuine leather or new wood, he thought grimly. Beautiful things always came with the fear of loss, a lesson he had learned by heart since childhood.

Sabata used another 10,000 pims for a final shopping trip: a few legal self-defence items, a used gaming console, and a fridge stuffed with food. The last 10,000 pims he stashed away carefully, for a rainy day. Sabata thought about yesterday. To say he wasn’t scared seeing dead people would be a lie, but on second thought, people died every day. Besides, he didn’t know them personally.

“Finally escaped the instant noodle life,” he thought, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. He rolled into the kitchen, a space whose primary function he had almost forgotten, other than for boiling water. The garlic was chopped a bit clumsily, a few cloves flying onto the floor. The tomatoes weren’t sliced very evenly. But as the pan heated up and the smell of fried garlic hit his nose, old instincts began to stir. He seasoned, tasted a little, then seasoned some more, muttering to himself like an alchemist trying to turn lead into gold. Finally, the pasta went into the pot.

The aroma of real food filled the air, a scent that could chase away both ghosts and despair. While waiting, Sabata sat by the window, watching the misty rain drift over the rusted tin roofs. It occurred to him that cooking was a bit like life: a little messy, but the end result could be well worth the wait.

“I need to think of a way to make money. Maybe a small business or something.”

Pushing aside his wandering thoughts, Sabata decided to focus on something more practical: how to stop this money from evaporating as quickly as it had appeared. He rummaged through an old cardboard box, the one containing all his meagre possessions from the orphanage. A few worn-out clothes, some broken toys, and a stack of old books.

His eyes lit up as he pulled one out with a very catchy title: “The Secret to Getting Fed Without Doing a Thing”. The cover depicted a fat man lazing in a hammock, a blade of grass in his mouth, while money rained down from the sky. An idea too good to be true, which usually meant it wasn’t. Sabata curiously flipped through a few pages.

The book, written by a self-proclaimed philosopher named “Grandmaster Sloth,” presented some highly convincing arguments, provided you had just ingested something very potent.

Chapter 1: The Law of Conservation of Effort. The universe is inherently lazy. All objects tend to remain at rest until acted upon by a greater force (usually a rent bill). Therefore, doing nothing is, in fact, the most natural course of action. You aren’t lazy; you are merely in harmony with the cosmos.

Chapter 2: The Theory of Relative Wealth. Wealth is not about how much money you have, but how little you need. A person with 10 pims who only needs 1 pim to live is infinitely richer than a person with a million pims who needs two million to maintain their lifestyle. Conclusion: the fastest way to get rich is to need nothing.

Chapter 3: The Art of Quantum Delegation. There always exists the possibility that someone else will do the work you intend to do. By doing nothing, you create a vacuum in reality, a void that the universe will find so irritating that it must send someone else to fill it. This is not shirking responsibility; it is trusting in the management efficiency of Creation.

“Interesting, but it sounds kind of wrong,” Sabata mumbled, closing the book. It was the kind of philosophy reserved for people who already had a fortune to do nothing with.

He continued rummaging and finally found what he was looking for. The cover was faded, but the title was still clear: “Getting Rich for Dummies”.

“This is it!”

But before he could even turn the first page, a dry knock echoed from the door, cutting through his excitement.

Sabata held his breath. Who? He had almost no acquaintances. The landlord? He’d just collected the rent yesterday and didn’t seem particularly keen on visiting this hovel. He tiptoed to the door and peered through the peephole.

A strange face. Cold and expressionless.

A scammer? A multi-level marketer? Or… something to do with yesterday’s piece of metal? The last theory sent a chill down his spine. He backed away, one hand silently dialing the police on his phone, the other gripping his newly purchased electric baton. The small click of the safety switch sounded, and he was ready. Only then did he feel safe enough to reach for the door.

The visitor was Wil. Sabata stared straight at him, trying to find a sign, an emotional flicker, anything. But there was nothing. The man’s face was as placid as a windless lake. This guy isn’t human, the thought flashed through Sabata’s mind, or he’s something much worse.

Before Sabata could say a word, the man held out a police badge. The metal shone, bearing the familiar eagle crest of the Trilium force. It looked real. Too real. Sabata narrowed his eyes. Impersonating an officer was a serious crime; this man was either incredibly stupid or incredibly confident. And looking at that emotionless face, he leaned towards the latter. Before he could verify it, Wil had casually stepped into the room as if he owned the place.
He walked straight to the dining table and, without missing a beat, helped himself to a piece of the pasta Sabata had just finished cooking.

This act, strangely enough, made Sabata temporarily lower his guard. A real police officer would never do that. But a fake one probably wouldn’t have this much gall either. What the hell was this guy?

After finishing the pasta, Wil turned and spoke, his voice as flat as if he were reading a report.

“Do you know what crime you’ve just committed, kid?”

A real cop? Sabata’s heart skipped a beat, but he quickly composed himself. He’d looked up the law all last night. Finding lost property wasn’t a crime.

“What did I do?”

“Poisoning a police officer.”

Sabata almost laughed.

“…That’s the worst joke I’ve heard all day. I’m not Snow White’s stepmother.”

Suddenly, Wil’s placid expression changed. He clutched his stomach, his face turning a sickly green as sweat beaded on his forehead.

“Oof, the pasta… it’s poisoned. But… since you’re a juvenile offender… I’ll just fine you 50,000 pims. Consider it… a lesson learned. But you have a long future ahead, so I won’t put this on your record.”

Sabata’s phone pinged. He glanced at the screen. A debit notification from Trilium Bank. Account: -50,000p.

A cold shiver ran down his spine. A real one, this time.

“You hacked my account? A police officer committing such a blatant violation of privacy?”

Wil’s expression turned serious again.

“I’m sure you understand the situation now. Let’s both take a step back and go our separate ways. If you want to sue, be my guest.”

Sabata knew he had lost. He was a mouse. How could he fight this alley cat and the invisible pack behind it? He fell silent, a silence thick with resentment.

Seeing this, Wil turned to leave. But at the door, he noticed the old book on the table: “The Secret to Getting Fed Without Doing a Thing”. An almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. He turned back, approaching the still-nonplussed Sabata.

“Hey, what are you trying to plant on me!?” Sabata flinched, pulling his hand back as Wil suddenly touched him.

“Feeling violated? Good,” Wil said, his eyes flashing with a strange light. “But I’ve decided.”
Sabata only saw that flash of light before everything went fuzzy.

Wil slumped to the floor. He remembered the old days, when he was very young, when he too was a cursed-angel kin…

Wil was only five when he came down with a raging fever. To find medicine, his mother had climbed the mountain in a blizzard. She returned with the herbs, but lost a leg. During the day, she still managed to smile, but at night, when there was only the cold moonlight and the sound of wind whistling through the cracks, Wil would hear her stifle her groans into a thin blanket. He lay awake, his heart twisting into a knot. He wanted to run to her, to hold her, but he knew she would just pat his head and say, “I’m fine, son. Go to sleep.” She was always like that, always trying to hide her pain to protect him.

On his sixth birthday, he woke to the fragrant smell of chicken soup. His mother sat by his bed, her face gaunt from lack of sleep but her eyes still shining with a warm smile. Wil finished the whole bowl, the sweetness of her love mingling with the saltiness at the corner of his eyes. He grasped her rough hand.

“I’m going to make money and take care of you, Mom. I’ll become rich, buy you a big, beautiful house, and get the best doctor to fix your leg.”

Wil’s mother pulled him into her arms and kissed his messy hair. She said:

“I don’t need anything, son. I just need you to be healthy and happy. That’s my greatest joy.”

The winter that year was especially cold, but not as cold as people’s hearts. The village children teased him for not having a father; he endured it. They threw stones that split his head open; he endured that too. But when they shrieked his mother’s name, calling her “that crippled, one-eyed, unlucky bastard-bearer,” he could not endure it any longer.

It was cold, but his heart felt like it was on fire.

Wil didn’t know what he was thinking. He just charged, one against a whole gang. He was beaten black and blue, blood from his nose mixing with his tears, but he felt no pain. All he could hear was the ringing echo of their insults against his mother.

The village chief’s son, a heavy lump of lard, sat on his chest. Wil felt his lungs being compressed into a sheet of paper. The boy punched him again and again. Wil’s vision blurred with each blow, becoming a smear of red blood and green bruises.

“Take that! And that, you little punk!” the fat boy yelled, as triumphant as a god who had just created a new universe from someone else’s suffering.

The other kids laughed, a choir of accomplices. Wil covered his face with one hand, the other scrabbling on the cold ground. His fingers closed around something hard and rough. A rock. Then there was a thud. Dry and satisfying.

The boy fell backwards, his nose now looking like a squashed tomato. He clutched his face and ran, his sobs sounding surprisingly lovely. The rest of the pack, upon seeing blood, scattered like sheep seeing a wolf.

“Run, you bastards!” Wil screamed, the taste of blood in his mouth mingling with the first taste of vindication in his life.

But that joy was as fleeting as a cruel joke. The next day, everything collapsed in a preposterous script. His mother had to kneel. For an entire day, she knelt before the village chief’s house to apologise for his “crime.” Her bent back, her crippled leg, kneeling on the cold earth because a boy got a broken nose.

She caught pneumonia. There was a doctor in the village, but his kindness, apparently afraid of being oppressed by the village chief, had decided to go on a long holiday. Wil made ginger soup, the only thing he knew how. It didn’t work, of course, because ginger soup cannot cure human cowardice.

The next day was especially cold, but Wil felt his heart was colder still. His mother was gone. The silence in the house was now more terrifying than her nightly groans. No more hugs, no more warmth. Only a question carving itself into his young mind: Why did the guilty not have to pay, but my mother did?

On that same absurd day, Wil met a strange man. He offered no words of comfort, no loaf of bread. He handed Wil a mouldy old book with a title more ironic than life itself: “The Secret to Getting Fed Without Doing a Thing,” and then led him away.

And that was when, ironically, Wil’s life of “working for nothing” truly began.
He laid Sabata on the bed, as carefully as if he were setting down a piece of his own memory. He left, returning to his work.

At that moment, his main body back at the police station shot to its feet. Amidst the noise of a world still turning, he declared, more to himself than to anyone else:

“I have a son now.”

That evening, after waking with a jolt, Sabata scrambled to check his body. Still intact. No extra limbs, no missing parts, and no unwanted tattoos declaring him “Property of the Government.” A good start.

Next, he tremblingly checked his phone. The screen lit up, and the number in his banking app made him rub his eyes several times. It wasn’t -50,000p. It was 50,000p. Positive. With a plus sign and everything. It was an economic miracle that would have the most brilliant economists scratching their heads and blaming a statistical anomaly.

But the universe, as we know, has its own special way of restoring balance. Usually with a swift kick to the nether regions when you least expect it.

Sabata swiped over to his social media app, and that’s when he saw it. Under his name, a new status had appeared, one he was certain he hadn’t written, but there it was, more real than the pasta he almost got to eat.

The post, framed in a pastel pink box with sparkling hearts, read: “In a complicated relationship.”

And in his bio, under “Occupation,” it had been updated to: “Kept by an anonymous benefactor.”

Sabata stared at the screen, his brain attempting to process a volume of absurdity so immense it could short-circuit a supercomputer. He muttered a single word, a word that perfectly summarised the ridiculousness of the situation, a word he would probably have to get used to.

“Sugar Daddy?”