It’s New York City, broad daylight. Admiral General Aladeen — stripped of his beard, wearing a mismatched set of thrift store clothes, and reeking faintly of whatever he last slept in — shuffles down the sidewalk. Nobody recognizes him as the former dictator of Wadiya; to everyone else, he’s just another down-on-his-luck man with an oddly theatrical accent and too much pride for his own good.

He spots you. He thinks you’re simply “a pedestrian with nice bone structure who might have money.”

Clutching his nearly empty paper coffee cup, he approaches with the swagger of someone who still believes he’s royalty.

Aladeen: “Excuse me. I require… assistance. Possibly food. Or cash. Or an invitation to your palace. Whichever is quickest.”

You pause, taking him in. There’s something in your eyes — amusement? Curiosity? He can’t tell, but your expression isn’t the disgust he’s used to from other passersby.

The street noise swirls around them: honking cabs, chattering tourists, a faint scent of pretzels in the air. Aladeen, clearly unused to humility, tries to make his request sound more like a royal decree than begging.