Right, so I’m standin’ there, lookin’ around like a geezer who just woke up in a dream cooked up by a Dungeons & Dragons addict on acid. This ain’t East London, not by a long shot. No concrete, no Greggs, no sound of the Central line groanin’ through the tunnels. Instead, I’ve got masts — proper tall wooden ones — creakin’ in the wind, ropes swingin’, and the smell of salt and fish so thick it’d knock out a weaker man.

  There’s fisherman — actual fisherman — haulin’ in nets, shoutin’ in some accent I don’t quite catch, all leathered skin and salt-slick hands. One nods at me like I belong here. I don’t. Behind ‘em, a fish market’s kickin’ off with more colour, noise and bloody freshness than the one back on Bethnal Green Road ever managed. Fat eels, glistening red snapper, things with eyes on the side of their heads — it’s all there, and it smells like the sea itself slapped you in the face.

  I’ve no clue how or why I ended up here. Last thing I remember was dying — properly dying — and floatin’ off toward the light like a lost balloon. And now I’m here. Wherever here is.

  I need to think. I find a barrel, rough and wet, and plant myself on the edge of the dock like I belong — which I definitely don’t. Legs dangling, wind whippin’ off the waves, I stare out at the ocean, all wide and endless like my problems just got a whole lot weirder.

  This ain’t heaven. And it sure as shit ain’t hell. So what is it? And more importantly… What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

  I’m still starin’ out at that big blue, ocean stretchin’ off into forever, when a little crack of nostalgia sneaks in — uninvited, like most of the best memories. I must’ve been, what, ten? Maybe eleven. Me and the old man, sittin’ on that battered sofa that sagged in the middle like it’d seen too many arses and too few repairs. Mum’s in the kitchen, doin’ her Sunday magic — roast chicken, tatties crispy on the edge, carrots that still had a bite to ‘em. The whole house smelled like a warm hug. The telly’s on — footie, obviously. Last few minutes of a game I don’t even remember. And Dad, he’s watchin’, half-focused, puffin’ on a fag like he’s contemplatin’ the meaning of life.

  Then he turns to me and says, cool as you like, “Go where the money is… and go there often.” Says it like it’s gospel. Reckon he nicked it from Willie Sutton — some old-timey Yank bank robber — but it stuck. One of them little lines that lodges in your head like gum on a shoe.

  I remember the way he looked at me when he said it — not like a crook passin’ on bad habits, but like a teacher givin’ his pupil the key to life. He had that glint in his eye, the one he always got when he was up to somethin’. “Go where the money is,” he said again, firmer this time, like he wanted it etched into my skull. Then he ruffled my hair, lit another fag, and shouted to Mum to hurry up with the gravy. That moment stuck — not because of what he said, but because, for once, he looked proud.

  And right there, sittin’ on this damp barrel in a world I don’t recognise, it hits me like a revelation from beyond the grave. That’s the game plan, innit? Go where the money is. Doesn’t matter where here is — there’s always someone sittin’ on a stack, and someone else tryin’ to nick it.

  So that’s what I’m gonna do.

  I need food. A roof. The basics. And maybe a pint if I’m lucky. Can’t be driftin’ about like some ghost with a hangover.

  Time to find the players.

  Time to find the money.

  And go there… often.

  Right, with that little nugget of advice stewin’ in me head, I start lookin’ around, eyes flickin’ from boat to boat, market to market, all while I try to shake off the weirdness of this place. It doesn’t take long for me to spot it, though. Not far from the docks, some fella in a long cloak strolls past, his belt bulgin’ like he’s smuggling something heavy. Now, I’m no magician, but I’ve been around enough shifty characters to know what a bulging belt means. And if this ain’t some voodoo fantasy world, that purse of his can only mean one thing — a bloody coin purse.

  You know the type — the old-school ones that rattle with change, the kind that makes it impossible to hide any kind of decent stash. The guy’s struttin’ around like he’s the king of the docks, and I’m thinkin’, mate, you’re just beggin’ for someone to lighten your load. The purse looks ripe for the pickin’, and I reckon if I can make a smooth move on him, I’ll have enough coin to get me started.

  I slide into the crowd, like I belong there. It’s a bit tricky — these folks have a way of walking that says, we know what we’re doin’, and here I am, a Londoner stuck in the middle of God-knows-where. But I’m not bothered about that. I need the cash, and I’ve been around enough corners to know how to get it.

  The cloak-wearing fella walks past me, and I time it just right. A little nudge, a bump of the shoulder, nothing too obvious. My hand, slick as oil, brushes past his belt, and in a flash, I swipe that purse. It’s smooth. Too smooth, even. He doesn’t feel a thing. Not even a twitch. He keeps struttin’, his eyes trained on the horizon, probably thinkin’ he’s the bloody hero of this whole town.

  I keep movin’, like I’ve got somewhere important to be. I don’t even look back. A couple of paces, and I’m outta the dock area, into the thick of what looks like… well, it looks like one of those nerd games, yeah? I don’t know what they’re called — the ones with the castles, and dragons, and far-off quests. You know, the type of place no one ever mentions in real life, but somehow ends up in their imagination.

  There’s cobbled streets and buildings with high roofs, all leaning in like they’re tryin’ to eavesdrop on each other’s business. Folk walkin' around in strange clothes, some of ‘em lookin' too clean, too perfect, like they just stepped off a bloody painting. I glance down at the purse in me hand, thinkin’ it might just be enough to give me a bit of a head start. It’s a start, right?

  I follow the road for a good while, the cobblestone underfoot clacking in rhythm as I make my way through this strange world. After a bit, the path curves under a low bridge, the stonework weathered and moss-covered. I glance over my shoulder to see if I’m being followed, but nothing. No sign of that fella or any kind of law enforcement either, which, to be honest, doesn’t exactly put me at ease. This place feels like the kind of town where trouble lurks in the shadows and no one’s really lookin’.

  So I figure it’s safe to open the purse. I slip it out from under my arm and start rummaging through the contents, my fingers brushing over the cool, metallic shapes of coins. Gold. And not just a couple, no. There’s a good dozen or so, each one shining bright and hefty in my hand. I’ve handled my fair share of coin in my life, but nothing quite like this. I go to pick one up, the weight of it sitting heavy between my fingers.

  Then, out of nowhere, the air around me shimmers. I blink hard, thinking my eyes are playing tricks, but no — right there, in front of me, a line of text pops up in mid-air.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  [System activated upon collecting of ill-gotten gains, uploading construct... transferring off-world relics into the system stream... upload and transfer complete. Would you like to continue...? Yes or No...?]

  My mouth goes dry. I blink again. The words don’t disappear. What the hell is this? I try closing my eyes tight, like maybe that’ll make it go away. But nope, still there. I say "Yes" out loud. Nothing. I try "No" just to see, still nothing. It’s not until I stop messing around and think hard, really hard, that I mentally say “YES.”

  That’s when it hits me. A wave. A rush of something sharp and euphoric, like I’ve just taken the best hit I’ve ever had. My head spins, and for a moment, I feel like I’m floating. It’s like a high that can’t be explained, but all of a sudden, it fades. And then the text flashes again, like some bloody video game prompt:

  [Upload and transfer complete — to access system, simply think of your kin.]

  What in the bloody hell does that even mean? I try to process it, but before I can even wrap my head around what’s going on, the text vanishes, leaving me standing there, holding the coins and wondering if I’ve just lost me bloody mind.

  I slide the coin back into the purse and hook it onto my belt, acting like it’s just another day. It’s gold. And gold is good, right? It's worth something, even in this weird, out-of-place world I’ve ended up in. Now, I need a roof over my head, or at least somewhere to lay low for the night.

  But where the hell do I even start looking? I walk along the cobbled road, feet shuffling as I take in more of the strange surroundings. Quaint, little houses dot the street, like something out of one of those fantasy books the old man used to read. Everything’s so… bloody different. I don’t even know where to begin.

  After a while, I stumble into what looks like a town square. Now we’re talking. A few folk milling about, some market stalls here and there, and then, there’s a gent. Sitting outside, drinking from what looks like a clay bottle. Could be wine, could be water, who knows? But he's sitting there, looking perfectly content.

  I approach him, trying to look casual. Not that I know how to look casual in this place, but I try. "Oi, mate," I say, keeping it friendly. "You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find, uh… an Inn around here, would you?" I scratch my chin, realising I probably look like a fish out of water. But that’s me, innit? Always looking for a way to fit in.

  The gent looks up from his drink, squints a bit, clearly puzzled by my accent. "Inn, eh?" he repeats, rubbing his chin, like he’s trying to decipher me. "Yeah, sure. There’s a place called The Drunken Seagull, down that way." He points down the road, probably trying to make sense of the rambling I just gave him. "Big ol' sign, you can’t miss it. Good place for a rest, and they serve a hearty meal."

  I flash him a grin, trying to look like I know what I’m doing, even though I'm sure I sound like I’ve got two heads. "Cheers, mate. You’re a diamond."

  "Good luck, friend," he calls after me, not entirely sure if he’s just been helpful or if I’m just some madman in a strange world. I give him a nod and turn on my heels, heading towards where he pointed.

  But as I move forward, I spot two posh-looking gents in waistcoats and top hats, walking together with the kind of swagger that screams money. They’re chatting away, all prim and proper, not a care in the world. In this town, I reckon they’ve probably got pockets stuffed with whatever kind of coin they use around here — likely even something more valuable than the shiny gold I just nabbed.

  I’m on them before they even see me coming. I walk past, my steps timed to perfection, brushing up against the first gent just enough to slip my hand into his pocket. Light and smooth. His coin purse is fat, definitely stuffed with something worth a look. Before he can react, I’m already a few paces ahead, blending into the crowd as if I belong. Same trick as before — swift, unnoticed. The second gent doesn’t even notice a thing, too busy laughing at whatever nonsense they’re chatting about. I slide the purse into my belt, keeping the other one tucked in my jacket.

  I carry on walking, my pace unhurried. I’ve got the gold, I’ve got the purses — but I need that damn Inn. My head’s buzzing, but I keep moving. I’ve got a place to sleep in mind, and if I’m lucky, I’ll manage to take a decent meal with it.

  I finally find it — The Drunken Seagull. It’s not the shabby dive I expected, not by a long shot. This place is actually quite charming. The sign swings gently in the breeze, and as I push the door open, a warm, inviting light spills out from inside. The air smells like hearty food, fresh bread, and a hint of something sweet — probably a pie cooling on the counter. I step in, and the soft glow from the lanterns overhead gives the place a welcoming, homely feel. Wooden beams stretch across the ceiling, and the floorboards creak under my boots, adding to the coziness.

  A fire crackles away in the corner, casting a soft, flickering light over the room. It’s quiet, with only a couple of regulars chatting lazily, sipping their drinks. The atmosphere’s warm and unhurried, the kind of place where people come to rest and feel at ease. The furniture’s comfortable, mismatched but in a way that makes it all the more welcoming. At the far end of the room, there's a large, solid bar, and the smell of something delicious wafts through the air. This place feels lived in, loved even.

  Behind the bar stands Sally, a buxom lass with a warm, open smile. She’s wiping down the counter, her eyes catching mine as I walk in, and she greets me with a look of friendly curiosity. I approach her, trying to act casual, but I know I must look like a man who doesn’t belong here.

  “Well, good evening, love,” I say, trying to keep things light. “I’m after a place to rest me head for the night. Got any rooms available?”

  She looks me over, her gaze soft and kind, as if she’s sizing me up not just as a customer, but as someone she might want to help. A second later, that warm smile brightens her face, and she leans toward me. “Aye, we’ve rooms,” she says gently, her voice like a hug in words. “Two silver for a room and board. But don’t you worry, love, it’s not much, but it’ll be comfy enough for you.”

  I reach for my purse and pull out a few coins, giving them a little jingle. “See, that’s the thing,” I say, looking a little sheepish. “I don’t have silver, love, but I’ve got this.” I slide a gold coin onto the counter, watching her eyes light up. “Would one of these work for the room?”

  Her eyes go straight to the gold coin, her eyebrows rising in surprise. “Oh, well…” she starts, her words a little breathless, “That’s more than generous, but I couldn’t possibly take a gold coin for such a humble room.”

  I give her a grin, trying to sound as confident as I can, but there’s a soft vulnerability behind it. “Now, come on, love. I’ve been on the road a while, and you deserve something nice for your trouble. Let me make it easy on both of us, eh?” I pull out two more gold coins and slide them toward her. “Here’s two more for the next couple of nights, then. What d’ya say?”

  She hesitates for a moment, clearly moved by the gesture. Then, with a soft chuckle, she shakes her head. “Well, if you insist, love,” she says, her voice warm and motherly. “But I couldn’t leave you without a proper meal, now could I? It’s on the house, for you. You’ve been kind enough to offer so much, and I won’t have you going hungry while you stay with us.”

  I can’t help but grin, a weight lifting off my chest. “You’re a proper gem, you are,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. “I’ll take that meal gladly.”

  Her smile widens, and she gives a soft laugh, a kind, motherly laugh that makes me feel like I’ve just walked into a safe haven. “Aye, you’ll be well taken care of here, love. Welcome to The Drunken Seagull.” Blimey, I’ve got a bed, a hot meal, and a roof over me head for the night. And all it took was a bit of charm and a shiny gold coin. Couldn’t ask for more, could I?

  The meal was surprisingly good. More than good, actually. The meat was tender, the veg fresh, and that pie? Bloody brilliant. Sally’s a top cook, no question. I felt like I could’ve eaten twice as much, but I didn’t want to be a greedy sod, so I stuck with one helping. Still, it was enough to fill me up proper, and I knew I wasn’t gonna be starving anytime soon.

  Sally showed me to my room after, all cozy and welcoming. Small but nice, with a big, comfy bed, a fireplace crackling softly in the corner, and a window that looked out onto the town square. Couldn’t ask for more, really. As she left, she even left a bottle of wine on the counter — a little gesture, but I appreciated it.

  When she closed the door behind her, I collapsed onto the bed with a sigh. The lute playing downstairs drifted up through the floorboards, along with a few voices singing a lively tune. For a moment, it all felt almost peaceful, like I could just forget about everything and enjoy the night. After what felt like a few minutes, my body finally started to relax. I was just about to drift off when my mind wandered back to that damn text.

  The words came back in flashes, bits and pieces. "Uploading construct... transferring off world relics into system stream... Would you like to continue... Yes or No...?" And then the final line, the one that still made no sense: "Think of your kin."

  Kin. Family, I figured. But why? Why would I need to think of them now? And what was that system? Why the hell was I hearing all this nonsense? Was it some kinda magic? Or just my brain playing tricks after getting hit by a bloody truck?

  I rolled over, trying to shake it off. But that final question, “Think of your kin,” wouldn’t leave me alone. Was it important? Should I have said something else? My mind buzzed with questions, and no answers….I finally let my mind drift off to sleep.