FLASH
Glass breaking. A scream. The glint of metal. Blood blooming in the air like a mist from a fresh kill. A hand swings. A bottle shatters. Many faces appear unrecognizable, even if I knew who they were.
FLASH
Reality snaps back like a rubber band. The vision ended as quickly as it started. I whip around, just in time to see a man lunge at the bartender beside me, broken bottle raised like a weapon. “HEY!” I shout, already moving. My hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist and twisting.
CRACK. He screams, and the bottle drops. Deya stumbles back, wide-eyed. Blood trickles from a slice on her shoulder. It isn’t deep, but it’s enough to stain her white blouse. The guy snarls, trying to swing again with his other arm, but two of the bouncers grab him, hauling him back before he can get another shot off. “You fuckingBITCH!” he yells at Deya, and then at me. The whole bar is watching. Silent. Breathing as one. I feel it, eyes on me. It’s not just shock they’re feeling, it’s fear.Ofme? The kind that says you weren’t fast, you were early. I mean what was I supposed to do, let him and watch the bloodshed? No thanks.
“What the fuck just happened?” Deya whispers, clutching her shoulder.
“He was going to cut you,” I say quietly.
“Yeah, but… how the hell did you know that?” I don’t answer. Because I don’t know how to explain that I saw it before it happened. And it wasn’t a movie you want to watch twice. Like déjà vu with a switchblade. The guy is dragged out screaming. A few regulars whisper as they step back from the bar, watching me like I’ve got something contagious. Like I’ve changed. And maybe I have. Because for the first time, I didn’t just feel the wrongness coming. I stopped it. Someone still bled. And that means whatever this is? It’s only getting louder. The lights feel harsher now. Like they’re watching me, too.
Deya’s in the back with a medic, just a few stitches, nothing deep, they say, but it doesn’t stop the look shegave me before she left. She seemed unsure if I was the solution or the problem. I toss the bloodstained towel in the bin, knuckles still white on the edge of the bar. The bouncers are already talking to the manager. Paperwork. Statements. Cleanup. Protocol. The patrons? They’re not talking. Not loud enough to hear, anyway. I felt the way they looked at me, though. Like they're trying to figure out what they just saw.
“You okay?” someone asks from the other side of the counter. It’s Jax. Another regular. He leans in too far, smelling like bourbon and cheap cologne. “You were out of it the other night,” he continues, tone too casual. “You don’t remember, do you?”
I pause mid-pour. “What do you mean?”
“You were behind the bar. It wasn’t you. Eyes glassy. Like you weren’t there. The place went weird.” I don’t answer. My stomach knots. Because he’s right. I don’t remember. “Then tonight,” he adds, tapping his glass, “You moved before he did. Like you knew.”
“Intuition maybe,” I lie. Before I dig a deeper hole or say something to make him laugh and forget it, he walksaway. I turn, glancing toward the security system tucked under the register.
I check the footage. Once the screen blinks to life, I fast forward, rewind, and pause. There I am, standing still, then moving just before the guy lunges. There is no reaction or anticipation. I knew. Somehow, I fucking knew.
A soft sound under the bar mat makes my pulse spike. I reach beneath it. Another note, same folded style. No writing on the outside. Inside, one line, inked in script that curves like it was written with reverence:
“You looked divine in ruin.”
The paper trembles slightly in my hand, or maybe that’s me. One thing is clear. Someone saw what happened. Whoever that someone is, they liked it.
I pace, drink half a beer, and pour the rest down the sink before scrubbing blood from the counter that no one else seemed to notice. I burn the note in an ashtray and watch the flame curl around the words like it’s savoring them.
You looked divine in ruin.
Who the fuck writes that? I can’t handle any more shit right now. I’m still trying to process the uninvited who just welcomed themselves in my life, creating chaos for me, or fucking me, until I forget said chaos. I start to panic again.
It’s close to three in the morning when the bar finally empties out. Staff clears. The last clatter of heels fades into the rain-soaked dark. I turn the lock, and he’s already inside. Riven. Leaning in the far corner of the room like he’s been there for hours. Like he belongs there. His black suit catches the light like oil. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me. “How long have you been standing there?” I ask, my voice a little too steady.
“Long enough.”
“To see the blood? Or just the burnout?”
“To see the crack,” he says softly. “Where the light comes in.”
My laugh is sharp, hollow. “Don’t quote Leonard Cohen at me like you’re not half of what’s breaking me.”
He finally pushes off the wall, and walks closer, slowly. Purposeful. “It’s starting,” he says.
“Yeah, I fucking noticed.”
He glances at the space behind the bar where the blood’s already been cleaned. “That wasn’t the first time, was it?” I don’t answer. Because no, it wasn’t. This time I stopped it. This time, I interrupted fate. And that makes it worse, somehow. More real.
“How do I stop it?” I ask.
“You don’t.” He’s in front of me now. Closer than he should be. His presence has gravity, like if I blink, I’ll fall into orbit around him. “You bonded yourself to me,” he says. “There’s no undoing that.”
