Rain had been falling for days, a thin, persistent drizzle that blurred the glass towers of Haven City into watercolor.
The streetlights smeared their amber glow across wet asphalt, where puddles trembled like restless eyes.
Michael Lane adjusted his collar and stepped out of his apartment building.
The old stairwell groaned under his boots.
He still checked the corners, still counted the steps — the kind of reflex that never leaves a soldier, even when the war does.
He had been retired for seven months.
Seven months of silence, of structure without purpose.
He still woke at five, ran ten kilometers, and cleaned the same pistol he hadn't fired in years.
He ate precisely, spoke little, and drank in the same bar each night.
To anyone else, he was disciplined.
To himself, he was rusting steel — polished on the outside, hollow within.
The bar sat on the corner of an old industrial block. Its sign flickered in the rain, the "E" in Eclipse blinking in and out like a heartbeat.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the sweet rot of old wood.
A jazz record murmured through the static of an ancient speaker.
"Same as usual?" the bartender asked without looking up.
"Yeah," Michael said.
"Whiskey. Ice."
He took his seat in the back corner, facing the door. Always the door.
From there he could see the whole room: the young men laughing over pool, a couple whispering near the jukebox, a drunk sleeping against the wall.
The city still pretended life was normal.
He sipped his drink slowly.
Whiskey was the only warmth that didn't require trust.
Then the door opened.
A woman stepped in, brushing rain from her gray sweater. Her hair was damp, her expression calm but tired, as if she'd walked through more than just weather to get here.
Her eyes caught his for a moment — not by intention, but by gravity.
She sat two tables away and ordered a gin with lemon.
The bartender nodded. No one asked questions here.
Michael noticed the way she held the glass — both hands, cautious, like someone afraid it might vanish.
The rain drummed against the windows.
"You come here often?" she asked suddenly, her voice soft, almost amused.
Michael looked up. "Enough to call it routine."
"That doesn't sound like fun."
"It isn't."
She smiled faintly. "At least you're honest."
There was a pause. Not awkward — just space.
The kind that lets two people decide if they want to stay.
"I'm Nora," she said.
"Michael."
She tilted her head. "You look like someone who used to follow orders."
He smiled. "That obvious?"
"The way you sit," she said, "like you're guarding the exit."
He didn't answer, but she was right.
They spoke quietly for a while — about the rain, about the city, about insomnia.
Nora said she worked in communications. "Or used to. Everything's downsizing now."
He said he didn't do much of anything. "Retired from a job that didn't believe in retirement."
Their voices blended with the low hum of music and rain.
At some point, she laughed — a quick, bright sound that felt out of place here, like sunlight through dust.
Michael didn't laugh, but he smiled.
Time drifted.
The bar thinned out until only a few regulars remained, silhouettes behind the smoke.
Nora glanced at the clock. "It's late."
He nodded. "You should probably get a cab."
She stood, hesitated. "It's still raining."
"Welcome to Haven," he said.
She smiled again — that soft, almost apologetic kind of smile that hides more than it reveals.
"Well," she said, "maybe I'll see you again."
"Maybe."
Nora pulled her coat tighter and walked toward the door.
For a moment, her reflection lingered in the glass — faint, distorted by water and light — before she vanished into the rain.
Michael finished his drink, listening to the rain's steady rhythm.
Somewhere outside, a siren wailed, faint and distant.
He glanced toward the sound, then looked back down at his empty glass.
The city kept breathing, unaware of what was coming.
And Michael Lane, a man who had survived too many endings, didn't yet realize he was standing at the edge of another one —
the thin line between wine and dream.