Levi is diagnosed with paracosm - a disorder that paints a complex and deeply felt relationship with this subjective universe, which may incorporate real-world or imaginary characters and conventions, in someone's mind. How will he cope with that?
A...
The underground city. A cavern of darkness. A land of thugs.
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This was my humble beginning.
┗━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━┛
And why did I think it would be a good idea to look for mom?
I gulped to myself, knowing that curiosity definitely got the best of me this time. Hats, oversized sweaters, gloves, boots - they were abundant for me to depict exactly how this place was like. The very palms of my hands are sweating profusely, yet my mind is screaming that it's not enough layers. Undeniably, it wasn't heat that caused the sweat after all; it was the genuine discomfort that churned in my stomach, and now, apparently reaching out to my palms too. I haven't felt like this in a while - not while I've been stuck at home with the southerners of Wall Maria.
Naturally, my hands crept up to each side of my arms, rubbing it up and down as I gained more stares from the squatting group in the corner. Across the street, I spot a few more pallid men - probably in this state due to the lack of Vitamin D. They were dawdling around, licking their ever so chapped lips. I began to doubt if my disguise was even working at the slightest.
"Gross." I muttered under my breath.
"What did you say?" a croaking voice appeared behind me, the disgusting warmth of it causing my hairs to stand.
There wasn't time to ponder over how the man could hear me, in fact, I refused to know. I quickened my pace, now striding along the road as my flair scarf accompanied me; it was the same scarf mom saved up to get me for my birthday. She really didn't have to waste her money like that, albeit I'm grateful for the protection it's giving me currently.
Splash.
"Fuck."
Could this place literally get any worse? Why are there puddles of murky substances everywhere though it's sheltered from rain? Look, it even stained the edges of my trousers! I swear if dad gave me the wrong address just to mess with me, I won't hesitate to do shit to him. I'll threaten him, just like I did to get this address in the first place.
I glanced onto the signboard in front of the busy shop ahead of me. There were hurdles of men tied around with young women, cackling through their filthy mouths. Swirls of alcoholic scents hit against the air, which almost had me gagging as I inhaled it in. After stealing a couple more glances, I finally identified that it had the same address which he scribbled down for me.
No, it can't be... she works at a brothel?
Realisation curses me as my hands curled into clenched fists. The rest of my body noticeably stiffens up, and my face drops pale. As obvious as it is, I was fuming - fuming with trauma and mere distress. This was the place dad was making her work at? And the punk has the audacity to demand more dirty money from her? Well he certainly never fails to disappoint.
