A small figure draped in dark hijab trod lightly towards the corner of the seemingly deserted alley. Only his apathetic dark walnut eyes were visible. Those were the eyes that belonged to a war-torn veteran who has seen enough lifeless bodies on the battlefield. He skillfully avoided any possible human encounter and knocked on the hazel-colored wooden door.
"Today's favorite snack?" a low and hoarse voice apparently belonging to a man was heard.
"Blueberry pie," the small figure replied monotonously.
"Come in," the man gestured.
After the door was closed, the small figure heaved a sigh of relief.
"Finally," he proceeded to removing the piece of cloth covering his head, "where's my pay?"
"Why did you always disguise yourself as a weird mercenary when you are a fine lady?"
"You see, nobody would have linked a cute girl like me to a haggard,"
"Why did you disguise yourself in the first place? It's not like being a writer is illegal,"
"Just give me my pay, Henry," Charlotte cut him short impatiently, "and I will be on a break for a year,"
"Why?" Henry exclaimed, "Your books are selling like hotcakes! Why don't you continue the momentum?"
"I just have some matters to attend to," Charlotte snatched the bag of money from him and started counting the gold.
It has been three years since she started as an author, creating her own fantasies. The first installment described a forbidden interstellar love story in an alternate universe. The brand new concept was heralded warmly by females in their twenties and thirties. It has been her main source of income, while being an adventurer is just a cover. But of course, to her, the relationship between money and happiness is directly proportional.
The more the merrier.
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