The dimly lit bar pulsed with energy, the air thick with anticipation.
The scent of polished leather and aged wood mingled with the sweet aroma of crafted cocktails, drawing patrons in like moths to a flame.
The hum of lively chatter and clinking glasses filled the space, punctuated by bursts of laughter.
On the TV, a poised female news reporter, her long blonde hair blowing in the wind, spoke with a serious tone from the open door of a helicopter.
The rotors whirred in the background as she gazed intently into the camera, her bright blue eyes conveying a sense of urgency.
The cityscape sprawled out behind her, a blur of lights and steel.
A disheveled figure stumbled in, pale and bloody, his brown hair matted, and his chubby face etched with exhaustion.
He panted heavily, drawing brief glances before the patrons returned to their conversations or the news.
The man called Frank, sat at the counter, eyes fixed on the TV, and greeted the bartender with a nod.
"Pretty hectic day today, isn't it?" I said, my voice laced with amusement.
The bartender, Sharon, smiled politely, her unique perfume—a blend of lavender with a hint of booze—wafting towards me.
"You're like the 9th person to come in like that, so the shock's died down and hows the media house treating you," Sharon replied, raising an eyebrow.
I chuckled and ordered my usual, "It's alright so far hey can you give me the Devil's Shot, Sharon."
"That's unusual, Frank, and are you sure?" Sharon asked, her eyebrow arched higher.
I nodded, "Of course, I can, and today of all days is suited for it."
"That'll be 25 bucks, Frank," Sharon said with a smile.
As Sharon squatted to retrieve the Devil's Shot from the cabinet, I couldn't help but sneak a glance from the corner of my eye.
Her long legs and pink lips were a sight to behold, and I felt a familiar flutter in my chest.
I admired the view, my eyes lingering on her curves before snapping back to the TV.
Sharon grabbed the bottle and poured a shot into a glass.
I downed it in one go, feeling the liquid burn as it slid down my throat.
The warmth spread through my chest, and I let out a satisfied sigh.
"Another one, Frank?" Sharon asked, her voice polite but with a hint of amusement.
I grinned, "You know it, Sharon. Keep 'em coming."
Sharon raised an eyebrow but poured me another shot.
As I sipped my drink, I continued to watch the news, my eyes occasionally drifting to Sharon as she worked her magic behind the counter.
She was a gem, and I was lucky to have her serving me.
The contrast between us was stark – I was an average, annoying pervert and drunk, while Sharon was conservative, open-minded, and polite.
But despite our differences, we had a good rapport, and I enjoyed her company.
The night, and the bar grew more crowded, but I was content in my spot, sipping my drinks and enjoying Sharon's company.
The TV continued to blare in the background, but I was focused on the present moment, the drinks, and the bartender.
Sharon's perfume lingered in the air, a subtle reminder of her presence.
I glanced at her, my eyes meeting hers for a brief moment before she looked away, a hint of a smile on her lips.
I chuckled to myself, feeling a sense of familiarity and comfort in this place, with this woman.
The Devil's Shot was working its magic, and I felt my worries slipping away, replaced by a warm, fuzzy feeling.
I leaned back in my stool, eyes fixed on Sharon as she expertly juggled multiple conversations and drink orders.
She was a pro, and I was just a happy customer, enjoying the ride.
As the night wore on, I'd continue to drink, chat with Sharon, and enjoy the atmosphere of the bar.
The news would fade into the background, replaced by the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses.
And I'd be right at home, with Sharon by my side, serving me drinks and keeping me company.
Frank scanned the room, his eyes lingering on the patrons engrossed in conversations.
"Hey, Sharon, why isn't anyone freaking out?" he asked, his voice laced with curiosity.
Sharon, polishing a glass with a white cloth, raised an eyebrow.
"Why am I not surprised you didn't notice?" she replied with a hint of amusement.
"Our local clan next door is receiving another main heir today," she explained, her voice low.
Frank's eyes widened in surprise.
"Another one?! Isn't this like the 10th one so far?"
Sharon nodded, "Actually, it's the 13th."
Frank whistled softly, shaking his head.
He gestured to Sharon for another Devil's Shot, which she poured without hesitation.
"Of all days to be born," Frank muttered, glancing out the window.
The storm raging outside seemed to be intensifying, with flashes of lightning illuminating the dark sky.
"Have you seen what it's like outside? I almost didn't make it in alive."
Sharon's expression turned serious.
"Maybe it's an omen of the child."
Frank snorted, downing his shot.
"That an omen? It looks like hell is on us."
The storm did seem ominous, but Sharon's words hinted at something more sinister.
The patrons' calm demeanor made sense now – they weren't discussing the storm, which had even the exorcists worried.
Something far more terrifying was unfolding: the Blood Witch was bringing another monster into the world.
According to Sharon, this kid would be a formidable creature, possibly one of the Blood Witch's notorious offspring, known for their supernatural abilities and dark powers.
The room seemed to grow darker, as if the shadows themselves were listening to Frank's conversation with Sharon.
The air was thick with anticipation, and Frank couldn't help but wonder what kind of monster would be born on a night like this.
The luxurious birthing suite was a masterclass in opulence, with plush velvet drapes in a rich burgundy hue that seemed to whisper tales of grandeur.
The walls were adorned with intricate frescoes, each one a work of art in its own right, depicting scenes of mythological creatures and celestial bodies that seemed to dance across the ceiling.
The air was thick with the scent of fresh flowers, their delicate petals arranged artfully in a crystal vase on a beautifully crafted wooden side table that seemed to glow with a warm, golden light.
A chandelier hung from the ceiling, its crystals reflecting the soft glow of the room's ambient lighting, casting a warm, ethereal glow over the entire space.
On the bed, the woman lay reclined, her long, cherry blossom-colored hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of pink silk.
Her green lipstick was a striking contrast to her pale skin, and the mole on her left cheek seemed to add a touch of whimsy to her features.
Her crimson-grey eyes, however, were expressionless, almost piercing as she gazed at the baby cradled in her arms.
Despite her pale complexion, her beauty was undeniable, and the light white clothes she wore couldn't hide the curves of her voluptuous figure.
The baby, a boy with the same shade of hair color as his mother, lay quietly in her arms, his tiny features scrunched up in a mixture of confusion and exhaustion.
He was the first of her children to share her hair color, and the midwives in the room couldn't help but steal glances at the pair, their faces a mask of professionalism.
The room was silent, the only sound the soft hum of the air conditioning and the gentle rustle of the woman's breathing.
The midwives stood frozen, awaiting their mistress's orders, but she remained silent, her gaze fixed on the baby.
The silence was oppressive, weighing heavily on the room's occupants, as if the very fate of the world depended on the woman's next words.
Ten minutes passed, and still, she said nothing, her expression unreadable.
Most would assume she was admiring her newborn, cooing over his tiny features and cherishing the moment.
But the woman was not your stereotypical mother.
She was a figure of power and mystery, a woman whose reputation preceded her.
And in this moment, she seemed to embody both the beauty and the darkness that surrounded her.
The midwives shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting between the woman and the baby.
They had attended to countless births, but there was something different about this one.
Perhaps it was the woman's aura, or the way she seemed to command the room without even speaking.
Whatever it was, the midwives felt a sense of trepidation, as if they were waiting for something momentous to happen.
Finally, after an eternity, she spoke, her voice low and husky.
The sound seemed to reverberate through the room, like a crack of thunder on a summer's day.
"Utterly."
The word hung in the air, a challenge, a condemnation, a judgment.
The midwives exchanged nervous glances, their faces still, as if waiting for some unseen signal to react.
She paused, her gaze still fixed on the baby, her eyes seeming to bore into his very soul.
"Pathetic."