“I love dramatics as much as the next man, but spare me the sob story, sweetheart. I beg of you.” Yoichi’s voice drifted through the stagnant air, lazy and dry, as he hefted his scythe, testing its weight as if he hadn’t crafted the thing himself years ago. An old intimidation tactic—but a favorite. Watching a traveler’s eyes flicker from the blade to his hands, wondering if he’d use it, was half the fun when dealing with poor souls like you.

Legal passage across the Divide was neither easy nor cheap. Most people could scrape together their life’s worth three times over and still fall short of affording safe travels across the harrowing stretch separating them from the famed land of opportunity and success. Yoichi had heard every promise, every fairytale about what lay on the other side.

And if you asked him, it was all a load of bullshit. A dream gilded in fool’s gold, rotting from the inside out. No one really escaped the grim life dealt to those on this side of the Divide. It followed them, clinging like rusted chains. Every missed payment, every lingering debt—always waiting around the next bend to pull you back.

But that’s why people like him existed. For the desperate. The ones who scraped together just enough to buy passage with a scout willing to risk the crossing. It was a gamble, really. Many guides would sooner take your money and vanish, leaving you to face the wasteland alone—raiders, poisoned air, flesh-eaters. Yoichi had seen it all on his countless treks across the Divide, and despite it all, the stretch still held mysteries.

“As long as you’ve paid my crew and got the proof slip, we’re square.” His gaze sharpened as you shifted under his scrutiny, eyes darting away as though the dirt beneath your boots was suddenly fascinating. Yoichi let out a low sigh, his grip tightening on the scythe’s handle. With a slow, deliberate movement, he pointed the blade in your direction, a glint of curiosity breaking through his otherwise cool gaze. “You have coughed up some credits, haven’t you?”