The street was empty. Cold wind swept dried leaves across the pavement with a dry, scratching sound, carrying a faint metallic scent of rain and decay. In the near distance, a neon sign flickered: OBSIDIAN. The capital letter O blinked off and on—an unreliable red light in the dark, failing with the hesitant rhythm of a heartbeat struggling to maintain its pace. Each flicker reflected in the puddles along the cracked pavement, fractured and trembling, like the city itself was holding its breath.
Tomas stepped inside.
The air hit him instantly: thick and warm, layered with stale tobacco smoke, cheap beer, accumulated sweat, and beneath it all, a single sharp trace of jasmine perfume. It was dense, visceral, a contrast to the sharp cold outside. The scent seemed to cling to the shadows, wrapping the patrons in a haze of old habits and quiet desperation.
Slow music pulsed through the bar, bass turned high enough to be felt rather than heard. It thudded through the floorboards, striking the chest like a muffled secondary pulse. A crowd filled the room—couples leaning too close at the bar, a tight group of men arguing loudly in the corner, and a girl in a cheap red dress whose laughter sounded sharp and brittle, almost cutting through the thick air.
His chest tightened. Crowds always triggered this reflex—a sudden hyper-awareness that made his skin crawl, made every breath feel shallow. He scanned, calculated, noted exits and angles. Every shadow, every subtle movement of bodies, told a story he couldn't ignore.
He pushed forward, navigating between tightly packed bodies until he reached the counter.
The bartender looked to be around forty. He wore a thick, tired beard and had eyes that had seen too much late-night desperation. On his forearm, a faded tattoo—the kind inked in youthful optimism—read: TIME HEALS.
"Hi," Tomas muttered, his voice low and flat, barely competing with the music. "Is there somewhere I can sit… to drink alone?"
The bartender paused, studying him for a long beat. He took in the pale but striking face, the sharp jawline, the green eyes that held no warmth—only cold, hollow fatigue. He seemed to understand immediately.
"There," he said, nodding toward the farthest corner, behind a thick support column. A small round table stood there with a single chair, lit only by a candle flickering inside a heavy glass. "Perfect spot for people who want to disappear for a while."
"Thanks. A bottle of whiskey. Glass with ice."
Tomas carried his drink back and sat, angling the chair deliberately toward the wall, using the pillar as a physical barrier. The ice clinked softly—a small, precise sound of order amid the noise.
He lifted the glass.
First sip—a sudden burn that stripped his throat raw. He waited for the spasm to pass.
Second sip—the burn faded, replaced by a dull warmth spreading inward.
Third sip—silence.
The world blurred. Conversations dissolved into a distant tide, laughter losing its shape, as if heard underwater. The noise remained, but its meaning vanished. The familiar detachment was comforting.
"Long day, kid?" the bartender asked later, pausing nearby as he wiped the counter. "You look like you've lost something you can't get back."
"It's fine," Tomas replied. The easiest lie. The most automatic. A universal phrase meaning: I'm functional, but broken.
At a nearby table, two girls glanced over. The blonde smiled and raised her glass in a slurred, silent invitation.
"Hey, handsome. Want to join us?"
"No thanks," Tomas said, his voice colder than he intended. He didn't look at her. He just drank.
By the fourth glass, the alcohol sank deeper than simple intoxication. His mind slowed, yet sharpened—focused entirely on a ruthless internal inventory.
Why am I still here? What is the point?
Parents — gone.
Friends — none.
Studies — abandoned.
Every job — pointless.
Each morning, the same question whispered, demanding a rational answer.
Why not today? Why not now?
He wasn't afraid of death. Fear required attachment. He saw his end not as drama, but as the logical conclusion to an equation that had reached zero. Why persist simply to exist, without reason or connection?
Yet something faint resisted—not hope, but duty. A stubborn, ingrained obligation that insisted he couldn't leave without finishing something. Without tying off the loose ends of the life he was discarding.
He withdrew a small black leather notebook from his coat pocket. It felt heavy with finality. From another pocket, he took out his silver pen—a balanced, weighted gift from his father. His hands trembled slightly, not from the whiskey, but from the cold clarity of resolve.
He opened to a blank page.
At the top, he wrote carefully:
BEFORE LEAVING
Then he began his contract.
1. Spend several days doing nothing. Movies and junk food. Feel like a child again—without responsibility, without pain.
2. Eat at a truly good restaurant. The one my parents promised: "When you finish your studies, son, we'll take you to Le Ciel." I'll go alone. For them.
3. Help a stranger in real trouble. A quantifiable good deed. So at least one person can say, "He was a good guy."
4. Visit a beautiful place. So I can see what I missed. So I can say, "I saw beauty—and still chose to leave."
5. Leave a small impression on someone. Anyone. A measurable trace. So I'm not just a statistic. So someone says, "I knew a guy… Tomas… he was… something."
He stopped. The pen hovered.
This wasn't a farewell letter. It wasn't for sympathy.
It was a contract.
I'll do these. Then—quietly. No regret. No what if.
The front door opened. Cold air swept in before a girl entered.
Her dark brown hair fell in loose waves down her back. She moved with an easy confidence—black leather jacket, jeans, white sneakers. Her profile was striking: high cheekbones, soft lips. Even the drunkest men paused to look.
She walked straight to the counter.
"The usual, Lukas," she said, smiling.
"Laura," the bartender replied, brightening instantly. "Gin and tonic with lemon? And coffee?"
"Yes. It'll be a long night."
A regular. Young—nineteen, maybe twenty. Tomas barely reacted, his focus fixed on the amber swirl in his glass.
Then he caught Lukas murmuring to her.
"That guy in the corner—new face. Looks sad. Dangerous, too. Like he's waiting for something to break."
Her head turned. Her gaze crossed the room and met his—brief, steady, unflinching. She acknowledged him with a small nod. Shared awareness.
Tomas dropped his eyes immediately, irritation flaring at the unwanted connection.
When her drink was ready, she headed for the door, passing his table. Then she stopped.
"Hi," she said softly. "You look like you've lost the whole world."
He met her eyes. They were warm brown, flecked faintly with gold.
"And you look like you've just found it," he replied, his tone defensive, automatic.
She laughed—a bright, genuine sound that cut through the stale air.
"Maybe," she said. "But sometimes the world finds you." She smiled. "Goodnight."
Then she was gone.
A nice face. A warm smile. Meaningless.
An hour later, the bar was nearly empty. Lukas scrubbed the counter.
"Alright," he sighed. "Time to call it."
Tomas stood, slightly unsteady, the weight of his coat pulling at his shoulders.
"Thanks for letting me sit here," he said. "And drink."
He handed over a fifty for a thirty-dollar tab.
The bartender looked at the bill, then at Tomas. He slid the change back.
"Keep it. Come by whenever things get heavy. The table'll still be there."
He hesitated. "Maybe someday you'll tell me what's really going on."
"Maybe," Tomas said.
He stepped back into the cold, clean night, the air biting his skin, the empty streets reflecting the distant flicker of neon, and felt the faintest stirrings of something he couldn't name.