I’ll forget it again. Just like all the other nights.
I’ll pretend I was dreaming, that I’m fine, that I’m still just a girl with a broken lock and a too-quiet apartment and no monsters behind the glass.
Something inside me is waking up.
And when it does…
Whatever’s on the other side of that scream?
It’s going to answer.
1
Last Call
The ice machine groans as if it is dying... again. Sounds like it’s choking on its last cube. I kick it once with the toe of my boot, then slide the bucket underneath to catch whatever pathetic scraps it decides to give me. I’m not in the mood to fight it tonight. I’m not in the mood for much.
The bar is half full and two drinks away from boiling over. You can feel it in the air. It’s thick with sweat, cheap whiskey, and whatever weird brand of frustration everyone’s dragging around this week. Another round of political shit storms on the TV, another natural disaster graphic scrolling across the bottom of the screen. No one’s talking about it, yet we all feel it. The world’s tilting. Seems like it has been for a while.
I sling the bucket back into the well, grab a bottle, pour two drinks, and shoot a glance at the regulars lined up like ghosts waiting for their next haunt. Marv's tellingthe same bullshit story about the time he "accidentally" took acid in '92. Tara laughs like it’s the first time she’s heard it, even though she could mouth the punchline in her sleep. Same old dance.
I’ve worked at this place since I turned eighteen. From barback to bar manager because I don’t know how to quit, and no one else could take the heat. Ten years in this city. Ten years behind this bar. Not a damn thing has broken me yet. Not even the fire.
Not that anyone here knows about that.
The bottles clink as I line them up, fingers moving on autopilot. My eyes drift to the busted neon sign in the front window. Flickering again. Another thing I’ll have to fix when I’m off shift, because God forbid, I let the place fall apart more than it already has.
“Lux,” Dragana, the owner, calls from the far end of the bar. “Keg’s running low.”
I nod, toss her the tap wrench, and crack my neck. “On it.”
I slip into the back hallway, away from the noise, the lights, the heat of too many bodies crushed into too littlespace. The cool air is a welcome change. I exhale and lean back against the storage room door.
And that’s when I hear it.
The scrape of a shoe behind me. Light, deliberate. Not one of mine, and definitely not Dragana’s. I straighten slowly. No panic. Not yet. Just alert.
“The storage area is closed to customers,” I say, turning with a smirk already locked in place. I’ve stared down drunk creeps and belligerent assholes more times than I can count. Whatever this is, it’s just another Tuesday.
The guy isn’t drunk. He isn’t anything.
Tall. Lanky. Maybe early thirties. Plain clothes…hoodie, jeans, nondescript face you’d forget in a crowd. Except for the eyes. Too sharp. Too still.
“You’re not what I expected,” he says, tilting his head like I’m some kind of fucking puzzle.
“Cool. You’re not what I ordered,” I snap. “Turn your weird ass around and crawl back into whatever hole you came out of.”
He doesn’t move.
“I just wanted to see for myself,” he murmurs, voice too calm as he steps closer, “You smell… different.”
I don’t give him time to say anything else.
My fist connects with his face, smashing into his jaw before the thought even finishes forming. The impact rings through my knuckles, and he stumbles back, eyes wide with surprise.
He touches his face, grins like I handed him a gift, and slips out the door without another word.
I stand there breathing hard, hand throbbing, heart thudding a beat too fast. Something about him felt not dangerous exactly, butwrong.
