A warm beam of sunlight shone through the opened window as the curtains fluttered in the light breeze. Ethan rolled over and groaned as the sunlight hit his face.

A month ago, he’d left Startesgarde after losing everything important to him. The woman he’d thought he’d fallen in love with, betrayed and abandoned him. Sam, one of his oldest friends, had left their guild. He’d never actually managed to do anything to help find Tae-Won, leading to his continued imprisonment.

He’d thought about returning to Skaro, the last place in the game he’d been happy. But when he mounted his horse, he found himself heading south in his drunken haze. Dawn had barely broken when he arrived in Grassmere. Jerry had been watering the daffodils outside of Ye Olde Dog and Pony Inn.

“Looking for a place to stay, Traveller?” The large innkeeper had asked him as he dismounted his faithful mare.

“Ummm. Yeah,” Ethan wasn’t even sure what had drawn him there, but he had been exhausted from his night's ride.

Jerry had recognized him not long after, one of the benefits of Ethan having taken a few extra steps in a couple quest lines the last time he was in the starting town.

That first day, Ethan was been sullen and quiet. He’d spent nearly the entire day drinking alone in the corner of the room. When Jerry had come to collect on his tab, Ethan had fallen over, breaking the table as he landed on it.

The next morning, Jerry had brought him an apron and mop. “Your choice is to leave or to clean up your mess.” Ethan chose cleaning. He had nowhere else to go.

That had turned into a full time position in the kitchen of Ye Olde Dog and Pony. Cooking helped take his mind away from the hellish pit it had sunk into. Just like in the real world, he could lose himself for hours at a time as he prepped, cooked and plated. He wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t suicidal anymore either.

Being in Grassmere afforded him plenty of privacy and safety. Since it was phased, he could safely assume that no one he knew could find him. If they tried to, they would return to the same version of Grassmere that had existed for them when they had respawned most recently. It also meant Paul, and his guild of assholes would be completely unable to reach him, as long as he stayed within the town’s borders.

He was also completely cut off from David, Miguel, and Leah. They had all tried messaging him, Ethan had set them all to ignore. He didn’t want them to find him. He rationalized it to himself that if they didn’t know where he was, he was keeping them safe.

But part of him still knew that was a lie.

He had utterly failed them. He’d failed to protect them, failed to keep them from getting banned from the raid clan. It was because of him that they would be trapped in this prison for even longer.

Ethan tried to roll over and escape the warm sunbeam, but he was unable to return to the comfort of sleep, the memory of his dreams haunted him. He had been back in the field outside of the Tower. It started the same as his memory, but instead of Alera leaving silently, she switched to Paul’s guild, stabbing Ethan through the heart. Paul, Kalinda, and Caleb had swiftly slaughtered the rest of his friends. As Leah died, she pointed a bloody hand at Ethan and spat out the words “this is all your fault.”

It was the same dream that had followed him for weeks.

“Fuck,” Ethan swore, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. His head throbbed in a dull ache, the remnant of drinking too much of Jerry’s ale the night before.

He tried to roll over, but found another person in his bed. Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. His mind raced, trying to remember the events of the night before. Flashes of memory came back to him, he’d finished his shift and sat at the bar. A woman, faceless in his alcohol soaked memory, had approached him. He couldn’t remember her name, the only feature that stood out was her short curly black hair. Is she a player or an NPC?

This wasn’t the first time Ethan had woken up with a stranger in his bed since he’d returned to Grassmere. He was quickly falling back into some of his more self destructive habits from the real world.

Okay, concentrate. Player or NPC? What did I tell her I was? He’d been pretending he was an NPC to any of the myriad of low level players he met. He didn’t want someone saying something errant that would lead to his discovery.

The unknown woman groaned and rolled over. Her dark brown eyes snapped open when she was facing him.

“Shit,” she swore when she saw him. “I mean…”

“No, that was my thought too,” Ethan groaned and pushed himself into a sitting position.

The woman immediately ripped the sheets away, wrapping them around herself and leaving Ethan exposed only in his linen underwear.

“Could you, um, turn around?” She asked, clearly embarrassed as she gripped Ethan’s sheet tightly around her body.

“Yeah,” Ethan nodded his head and rolled over. He could hear her rapidly moving around his small room as she gathered her discarded clothing from the night before. “Um, so I guess, thanks for last night?”

“Dude, shut up,” the woman stopped moving and said harshly to him. “You were drunk, I was too. Let’s just forget about it.”

“Wait,” Ethan’s heart began to race and he turned back to face her. She was just finishing pulling on a knit brown shirt. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, “if you were drunk, then you couldn’t con-“

“Stop,” she said, shaking her head. “If you’re going to say I couldn’t consent, you’re wrong.” She laughed quietly. “You were already drunk by the time we started talking, I just didn’t realize how drunk until we got back up to your room. It was both of our mistakes.”

“Look, I’m still sorry,” he said, laying back down on his bed. “Can I at least buy you breakfast?”

“At the place you work?” She scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest and shifting her weight to one hip. “I’ll pass.”

“Oh,” Ethan said sadly. He didn’t even know her name and she was put off by him.

“Listen,” she sighed, “I’ve got to go. Not everyone goes native, some of us still want to go home.”

So I didn’t tell her I was an NPC… he thought to himself.

“Yeah, I understand,” he pushed himself back into a sitting position, “good luck. Don’t forget to kill the summoners before the Shaman in the Bullywug grotto first.”

“What kind of idiot do you think I am?” She scowled at him, “Everyone knows that if you don’t, a colossal frog god spawns. Christ, how long have you been here?”

Before Ethan could say anything else, she stormed out of his room, slamming the door behind her.

“Oh yeah, it’s going to be another great day,” Ethan said sarcastically to no one but himself, as he rubbed his pounding head.

He got up and dressed quickly, a simple black pair of cotton pants and a dingy white shirt. He hadn’t taken his armor or seaxes out of his inventory in weeks. There wasn’t any need to. He wasn’t an adventurer anymore, he was just a cook.

The large common room of Ye Olde Dog and Pony Inn was almost empty of patrons when he descended the stairs. Not unusual for an early morning in Grassmere. Players were either out getting an early start on the day, wanting to hurry back to Startesgarde and back to the actual game, or still sleeping. The village NPCs didn’t start showing up until later. Breakfast wasn’t a popular meal in the game world.

Ethan turned and slid through the small gap between the bar and the wall that led to the kitchen. He’d often wondered how Jerry managed to squeeze his bulk through the tiny opening.

It always surprised him how quiet the kitchen was in the morning. Hood vents weren’t a safety requirement in the world of The Tower apparently.

Nigel, the other cook employed at the inn, was busy working. Ethan watched him expertly tie thick butcher’s twine around a rolled up pork belly, several more sat on a metal pan next to him. He’d taken to thinking of him as his apprentice, the young man had definitely progressed as a cook since Ethan had arrived.

“How many are you doing?” Ethan asked him as he shrugged on the custom double breasted jacket he’d had made for him. Chef’s jackets apparently weren’t something regularly worn in the game, but he’d paid the local tailor to make him several. The familiar jacket helped make him feel like he was an actual chef again.

“Fourteen,” Nigel answered him as he looped and twisted the twine around another pork belly. “That’s how many you cured, wasn’t it?”

Ethan concentrated for a moment, trying to recall his prep from a week ago, his head still pounding.

“You got the fat ready?” He asked, heading over to the large pot of coffee he kept in the small kitchen.

“Yes, Chef,” Nigel answered him mechanically. He finished tying the last belly and added it to the stack. “These for tonight?”

“Tomorrow,” Ethan answered him, stirring cream and sugar into the thick black coffee. “They’ll have to cool in the fat or they’ll dry out.”

“What are you running tonight?” Nigel had picked up some Ethan’s real world kitchen lingo quickly. Except for the rampant kitchen profanity, the NPC would fit in well in any kitchen Ethan had ever worked in.

“Short rib,” Ethan said as he began buttoning his jacket. “With wild farro, carrots and Demi glacé.”

“You did that one last week,” Nigel reminded him, “Jerry may not be happy you’re repeating so quickly.”

“Jerry loves my short rib,” Ethan defended himself. That was only partly true. The innkeeper did love the rich braised short rib, but so did Ethan. And being hungover, he wanted nothing more than the fatty meat on a sandwich with a thick roasted garlic aioli.

“True, but Mihal doesn’t,” Nigel laughed. “He says whenever you make it, Jerry doesn’t fit in his pants the next day.”

“I mean, that’s not my fault,” Ethan smiled. The kitchen banter eased the emptiness he felt inside him. It didn’t fill the hole, just distracted him from its presence momentarily.

Prep work helped keep the hollow feeling away as well.

Ethan finished his cup of coffee and took his favorite knife off the wall where he’d hung it the day before. Several quick slices along a honing steel brought the edge back to the razor sharp he kept on the blade. Every chef he’d worked for had stressed the importance of a sharp knife. Once a week he took an hour to grind his knives on a porous stone he’d purchased from Caldwell, the friendlier of the two Blacksmiths in Grassmere. Another mindless task that helped keep the emptiness at bay.

An hour later, his apron covered in red stains from the mountain of cleaned short ribs laid out flat on several pans next to him, Ethan turned to Nigel.

“Get those pans scorching hot,” he ordered as he sprinkled salt and pepper generously over the meat.

“Yes, Chef,” Nigel carefully laid his own knife next to the pan of onions, carrots and what passed for celery in the game. “I’ve got wine and stock here for you as well.” He pointed at two very large jugs of liquid as he turned on the burners of the stove.

Whether it was gas or magic, Ethan wasn’t sure what exactly powered the flames of the kitchen, but he also didn’t care. All that mattered to him was that he wasn’t constantly having to tend to a fire to keep the flame where he wanted it.

His stomach twisted in hunger, a painful reminder that he had yet to eat anything yet that morning.

“Nigel,” Ethan said, removing his stained apron and unbuttoning the top button of his jacket. “You know what you’re doing with this, right?”

“Yes, Chef,” Nigel nodded enthusiastically. “Sear the meat, transfer it to the large pans,” he pointed at a small stack of large, heavy metal pans. “Then hard sear on the mirepoix, deglaze all the pans with the wine, and cover all of it with stock.”

“You’re learning well,” Ethan said as he opened a small wooden box on the counter by the door. He removed two hand rolled cigarettes and turned back to his apprentice. “I need to finish waking up, I’m trusting you to take care of the short ribs. When I get back we’ll get started on lunch.”

“Heard, Chef,” Nigel nodded so vigorously his headband fell into his eyes. “Thank you, Chef!”

Ethan smiled as he tucked one of the cigarettes behind his left ear, grabbed a couple cold links of sausage and his coffee, and exited through the back door of his kitchen.

The fatty, savory sausages twisted his alcohol soaked stomach as he forced them down. It wasn’t the ideal breakfast, but it was exactly the type of meal he’d have consumed back home. Coffee and fatty foods.

Ethan placed one of the cigarettes in his mouth and snapped his fingers, causing a small spark to appear and light the tobacco. His first, deep inhale caused his head to spin.

He’d quit smoking years ago, the health advisories at home were everywhere. In the game, he couldn’t force himself to care at the moment. It was a crutch that he used to help limp along.

He sat down hard on the small bench he’d placed by the curing shed he'd built, the sweet smell of curing meats mixed with the acrid tobacco, causing his stomach to churn.

Ethan flicked the half smoked cigarette into a bucket of sand where it joined dozens of other waterlogged cigarette butts. He rubbed his right temple with the palm of his hand, leaned on his knees, and threw up.

His alcohol ravaged body shook as he wretched, emptying the coffee and sausages he’d eaten in an acidic pile of liquid on the ground.

Sitting there, breathing in the fumes of sour beer, stale tobacco, and vomit, Ethan sobbed.

What the fuck am I doing?