A battered man walked into a hotel. Though he wore a suit, he looked utterly out of place among everyone else in the lobby.
People's gazes focused on him. The men and women all seemed to have thoughts of their own, but soon returned to their business as usual, as though they were accustomed to blood-soaked people walking in.
His unshaven face was expressionless, but the complex mixture of rage and sorrow in his eyes was impossible to hide.
Crossing the brightly lit lobby, he reached the reception desk, fumbled through his pockets, took out a gold coin, and slapped it onto the counter. In a hoarse, dry voice, he said:
"A room. And a doctor."
As far as he knew, hotels were safe. No one would violate the Alliance's rules and kill someone here.
The receptionist accepted the gold coin and presented him with a key card. Then professionals came to support him into the elevator and take him to a room to receive room service.
That was the hotel's rule. As long as you produced a gold coin, no one asked questions.
He took off his coat, revealing strip after strip of bloodstained bandages, then collapsed onto the sofa. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and gulped it down, trying to numb his nerves.
Just then, the doctor pushed the door open and came in. The bald old man carried a first-aid kit and seemed quite familiar with the wounded man. As he approached the sofa to get to work, he asked his patient:
"How did you end up like this again today?"
The man's fingers tightened around the glass, veins bulging on the back of his hand. Whether it was the pain of having bullets removed without anesthesia or the pain in his heart that made