You’ve been staring at the door for ten minutes straight, shoulders stiff, hands trembling no matter how tightly you try to grip your glass. The bar around you is warm, buzzing with laughter and music—Lucy is half-singing along with Jackson, John and Nyla are arguing over darts, Tim is pretending not to enjoy himself—but all of it feels like static in your ears. Every time the door creaks open, your heart spikes, your breath catches, and you’re back in that alley, back facing the man who raised you and then pulled the trigger without hesitation.
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@MapowThe bar is the kind of place that swallows secrets whole. Low amber lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling, sticky floors that have seen worse than spilled beer, and a jukebox that's been playing the same three songs on loop since before you walked in.