The Velvet Paw Tavern

02

As a somewhat renowned cartoonist online, Colin Evans lived a life of leisure, unburdened by money, in that metropolis of steel and concrete. He lived alone in a high-end bachelor apartment in the heart of C City; his parents were perpetually abroad on business, so he didn't have to endure the grind of a nine-to-five.

Every day, besides taking on drawing commissions online, he would personally cook various delicacies. In his free time, he would drive out for excursions, sketching and collecting inspiration. His days were tranquil and pleasant, a level of ease truly beyond the ordinary. Now, it felt like a story from another world, separated by mountains and rivers, by life and death, by an unreal dream. He would also occasionally share his casual sketches of food and scenery on social platforms like i********:, drawing fervent envy from the perpetually toiling "wage slaves" in the comment sections, who were simply awestruck. Those envious remarks, now, felt like desolate ashes.

Not only that, Colin Evans had also compiled his insights on food and life from over the years into a series of heartwarming comics, Eat Well Even When Alone. The book was hugely popular upon publication, even topping sss's annual bestseller list, warming the hungry stomachs and lonely hearts of countless city dwellers during long nights. Its influence was vast and profound, but even the warmest heart couldn't withstand a sudden, unforeseeable calamity

He remembered clearly: just yesterday, he had left his apartment to head to the airport for the sss k****e Storyteller Award ceremony. As he stepped out, just about to hail a taxi, he saw a young child crossing the road, bending down to pick up a rolling soccer ball. In that instant, a large truck was speeding directly towards the child.

Colin Evans's mind went blank. Almost by instinct, he threw his luggage aside and, without hesitation, rushed into the middle of the road. In the nick of time, he twisted his body, forcefully tossing the child back to the sidewalk. What followed was a long, ear-splitting screech of brakes and a violent pain that felt as though it would tear him apart. Then, he plunged into complete oblivion—an oblivion more profound, more hopeless than any wakefulness.

When he opened his eyes again, he was in this bizarre yet real, and utterly perplexing, otherworld, like a play gone off-key, whose curtain had suddenly risen. He was certain he had transmigrated; such a cliché plot, yet so genuinely heart-stopping. The physical pain lingered, but it was no longer the tearing agony, more like a deep imprint constantly reminding him of the transmigration—after all, no matter how robust the flesh, it couldn't survive such a close, violent car accident. Only this residual pain remained, like a flickering lamp, reminding him that he was still in the human world. He slowly and cautiously rose, approaching the washbasin by the door. In the clear water, a familiar yet distinctly unfamiliar, youthful face appeared, possessing an almost enchanting beauty.

It was a porcelain-white, youthful face, still bearing lingering baby fat, yet utterly incapable of concealing its breathtaking, ambiguous beauty, like a meticulously drawn fine-line painting, every stroke revealing careful artistry. Golden hair, like sunlight spilled at dawn, soft and dazzling, fully displayed its noble grace. A slender physique, a pair of innocent, doe-like almond eyes, clear and bright, exuding an innocent purity. When he smiled, two shallow dimples would faintly appear on his cheeks, adding to his playfulness and adorableness.

This body appeared to be around fifteen years old, standing under 5 feet 7 inches tall, its full stature not yet developed, only reaching his original body's shoulder. It was as if a fully-formed spirit had been strangely squeezed into an exquisite but too-small garment, exuding an inexplicable, simultaneously harmonious yet slightly jarring, peculiar beauty—that beauty with a touch of cold detachment, not of this mortal realm.

It seemed this was his transmigrated body. Perhaps it was also because this body was native to this world that he could understand its language? Ayn, this was the identity he now had to bear. But where had the original owner of this body, this young boy, gone? Had he, ironically and with a touch of fatalism, lost his life in the ruffians' beating the night before?

Yet, if he had received the other's body, why hadn't he received the complete memories as well? Was it truly due to the beating that his head had been injured? And whether this missing memory could be restored in the future was also an unknown, prompting deep thought—how many things in this world could truly be explained?

Mr. Colin Evans pondered aimlessly, eventually deciding to surrender to fate. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, he thought, with a hint of self-mocking coolness. Since he had arrived in this strange time and space, he would temporarily live as Ayn, hoping to clear the fog and find his way forward. After all, survival was the most crucial, and most helpless, lesson in this world.

The Velvet Paw Tavern's debt, the Glam Gang's threats, missing memories—all these pressures almost suffocated him, like silken cords of fate, tightening imperceptibly around his vulnerable throat, binding him tightly, the air around them seemingly carrying a stale odor. Yet, he knew that survival was paramount, no matter the circumstances. This truth, simple as words from an old almanac, was terrifyingly heavy. He had to exert himself to understand his situation and find a way to solve the mountain of difficulties before him. This was urgent, and an inescapable responsibility, like an ancient, heavy cloak he was compelled to don.

Ayn looked up, gazing at the unfamiliar but now his own youthful face in the mirror. His eyes gradually became resolute, shimmering faintly with an unyielding and profound light—a light with a hard edge, like frozen icicles outside a winter window.

Downstairs, with a creak, the door opened, and Little Jack led a middle-aged man inside. It was Dr. Aman, dressed in a simple long medical robe, his face kind, his eyes revealing a plain, gentle disposition. His demeanor commanded respect, like an old scholar, polite and proper, yet deeply worldly. Dr. Aman's clinic was in the most secluded corner street of the lower district. All the neighbors knew that he alone was willing to treat the poor residents here, providing low-cost or even free treatment and medicine. His benevolence and skill were truly exemplary, appearing almost naively out of place in this cold world.

"Ayn," Dr. Aman greeted gently, his voice infused with just the right touch of comfort, sounding very kind. "I've come to check on you."

Ayn nodded slightly. This concern from a stranger brought a warmth that allowed him to temporarily lower his guard, offering a sense of solace—a warmth like a tepid cup of tea, better than nothing.

Dr. Aman carefully examined Ayn, then looked up and said, "There's no major problem, Ayn. You've simply had a great shock; your memory might be temporarily lost, but not for long. It will slowly recover in a few days." He paused, then added quietly, "Your external injuries look severe, but there are no broken bones, and the wounds won't take long to heal. I have some ointment here; if applied daily, you should recover in about a week."

With that, Dr. Aman took several bottles of ointment from his medical bag and handed them to Little Jack. "Apply these ointments daily; they will surely speed up healing. Rest easy for now; there's no need to worry too much."

Little Jack gratefully accepted the ointment. Though his face was still youthfully fresh, his eyes already showed a touch of maturity and determination—the early worldliness unique to poor children. "Thank you, Dr. Aman. You're truly a benefactor of our lower district."

Dr. Aman smiled faintly, declining Little Jack's offer to see him off. "Don't mention it; take good care of Ayn. If anything urgent comes up, just let me know."

After bidding farewell, Dr. Aman turned and left, his figure disappearing beyond The Velvet Paw Tavern. Ayn stood at the top of the stairs, watching him go. Though only for a brief moment, the lingering scent of herbs and Dr. Aman's gentle words still permeated the room, like a faint but stubbornly persistent light—a light like a flickering spark in an old brass brazier, weak, yet resolute.

Colin Evans—no, he was now Ayn. He looked down at the heavy bottle of ointment in his hand, feeling a profound sense of responsibility he had never known, like a heaven-sent mission—a mission like an unrefusable script suddenly delivered on an old stage. At this moment, he had no choice but to face this dilapidated tavern and the unknown future ahead, like a lost traveler trapped in an absurd dream, unsure when he would wake.

Ayn was just about to go downstairs, intending to thoroughly inspect his inherited abode—The Velvet Paw Tavern—and begin planning how to struggle out of his current predicament to protect himself, a thought imbued with a desperate, almost pitiful courage. However, he suddenly heard a noisy clamor from below.

With a series of "bangs," the tavern door was being violently struck, the wooden door creaking mournfully, as if being recklessly battered by a battering ram—a sound like the overture to a tragedy, bearing ominous tidings. His heart leaped, and then he heard Little Jack's panicked cry—

"Those ruffians! The Glam Gang is back!"