After the small talk with the bartender, I also found out which hospital the injured workers had been sent to. It was a long distance away—about an hour on foot—but I had already spent a lot of money today, so taking a carriage wasn't an option.

  After a long walk, I finally arrived at the hospital.

  At the front entrance, there was a small reception desk.

  "Hello," I said. "I'm an independent journalist, and I'd like to ask the victims of the factory explosion a few questions."

  "Please show me your passport first," the receptionist replied.

  I took it out and showed it to her. I had brought it with me since I planned to commit a crime today.

  "I'll need to ask the patients whether they're willing to talk. Please wait a moment."

  The waiting took a long time—nearly an hour. Just when I started to think it wouldn't work, a nurse came over.

  "One patient agreed to speak with you," she said. "Mr. Dexter."

  The nurse led me to one of the hospital rooms. After I entered, she left.

  The man sitting in the hospital bed had brown hair and blue eyes. His arms were wrapped in several bandages, and there was another across his stomach. However, the injury that seemed the most serious was his left leg.

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  "Hello," I said. "I'm Viktor. I'm here to ask a few questions."

  "I know," he replied. "That's why I agreed to meet you. Go ahead and start."

  I had planned to be more formal, but it didn't seem like he cared about that.

  "First, I'd like to ask what exactly happened on the day the factory exploded."

  "At first, I wasn't looking directly at the machine," he said. "But before it fully exploded, it made a loud sound. I moved closer to see what was going on—and then it exploded. I raised my hands to protect my face. That's why I have fewer injuries there than most of the other workers, at least."

  "Could you tell me what you thought of your boss, Louis Perry, before the explosion?"

  "I didn't have much of an impression. We never spoke."

  "Not even when he hired you?"

  "No. His secretary handled the interviews."

  "What's your impression of him now, after the incident?"

  "He's a bastard," Dexter said angrily. "First he buys cheap machines, and now that everyone's injured, he won't even pay a single pence in compensation."

  "Are you saying he bought defective machines?"

  "Not defective—just low quality. They had problems all the time. Every few days, something needed repairing."

  "And now, while everyone's lying in the hospital, he's probably drinking wine in his villa."

  Dexter was clearly getting heated.

  "Villa?" I asked. "Does he live in the West Borough?"

  "No. Iris Street, Villa Four. It's near the West Borough."

  That was easier than I expected.

  I asked a few more meaningless questions, then said my goodbyes to Mr. Dexter.

  To be honest, using the anger of an injured man to gather information felt like a new low for me. But if I truly continued down the Criminal Pathway, I was sure I'd sink even further. That was exactly why I hesitated to advance.

  It was normal to change over time—but changing so drastically because of a potion? That could turn me into an entirely different person. Even now, after just a Sequence 9 potion, I had already changed. I had transmigrated, and the first thing I did was look for someone to rob.

  In the end, I took a public carriage home. I wanted to relax and make use of the day off I had gotten from my job as a waiter.