Vane did not hesitate.
The bottle was already in his hand before the thought had properly formed. His arm came up in a sharp arc, glass catching the light of the lamps overhead as he brought it down toward Kyler's head.
Kyler did not flinch.
His hand rose almost lazily and caught Vane's wrist mid-swing. The bottle stopped inches short. For a second, the two stood frozen like that—Vane straining forward, Kyler seated, fingers locked tight around his wrist.
Then Kyler's other fist drove straight into Vane's stomach.
Air left Vane in a broken sound. "—Ow!"
His knees bent without permission. Before he could straighten, Kyler's boot struck him again, this time harder, and Vane's back hit the floor with a dull thud that rattled the nearby chairs.
The ceiling lamps swam above him. The noise of the bar blurred into something distant and underwater. He tried to breathe, but each attempt felt like dragging air through a closed door. His body refused to respond the way he expected it to. It did not rise heroically. It did not even roll over. It simply lay there.
Kyler stood and adjusted his sleeves as though finishing a minor chore.
"That's it?" he said, exhaling through his nose. "I thought you'd spring back up. You nearly had me in the market. All that running." His mouth curved faintly. "So you can chase… but you can't fight."
He looked down at Vane. "You're weak."
A few men at the tables shifted in their seats. Someone laughed once, then quickly stopped.
Kyler turned, sweeping his gaze across the room.
"Listen carefully," he said, voice steady but carrying. "This is between us. No one interferes." His fingers tapped the edge of the table once. "Anyone who does will regret it."
The murmur that followed spread like low wind across dry leaves. Chairs scraped. Glasses paused halfway to mouths.
At one table near the wall, a man who had been sitting quietly all this time stopped moving altogether.
His hands rested flat on the table. Calm. Still.
But the wood beneath his fingers gave a soft, strained creak.
Kyler's attention drifted outward as the murmurs thickened. He swept his gaze across the room, making certain every pair of eyes had lowered.
"Is that clear?" he asked evenly. "No one speaks of this. Not to each other. Not to the sheriff."
A few heads nodded too quickly.
He allowed himself a breath.
When he glanced down—
The floor was empty.
For half a second, he simply stared at the space where Vane had been.
"Huh?"
The back door at the end of the bar was still swaying faintly on its hinges.
Kyler's eyes moved to the table.
The folded papers were gone.
Beside the untouched glass lay a few coins — enough to cover the drink.
He did not move. Not immediately.
The room had already begun to recover. A chair scraped back into place. Someone cleared their throat. Laughter restarted, softer this time.
Near the wall, the quiet man rose from his seat. He adjusted his coat with measured calm and walked toward the exit. Three others followed without being asked.
Kyler remained standing in the centre of the bar.
The realisation came slowly, like cold water sinking through cloth.
The stagger.
The breathless groan.
The way Vane had stayed down just a moment too long.
Kyler's jaw tightened.
He had been watching the room.
Not the man on the floor.
By the time arrogance left him, the opportunity had already walked out the back.
He could have chased him. Perhaps.
But he didn't.
Instead, he stepped away from the centre and into a darker corner of the bar, lowering himself into the shadows as if trying to piece together what had just slipped through his fingers.
Outside, the afternoon air felt startlingly clean.
Vane pushed the back door closed behind him and moved into the narrow alley. Only then did he pull the folded papers from inside his coat.
He checked the edges first. Then the seals.
All intact.
His shoulders, tense until now, eased a fraction.
The club's name would remain unstained.
"Thank God," he murmured under his breath.
A small smile — not triumphant, but relieved — touched his face.
He tucked the papers safely away and stepped into the sunlight beyond the alley.
The town bustled as usual. Vendors calling. Wheels creaking. The sun pressing warmly against rooftops. People wiped sweat from their brows and complained of the heat.
Vane barely noticed.
He stopped at a small bakery near the corner.
"Four pieces of bread, please."
"White or brown?" the shopkeeper asked, already reaching for the tongs.
"The brown one," Vane said quickly. "Sorry."
The bread was wrapped neatly in paper and handed over.
The shopkeeper hesitated, then added another piece. "Take a white one too. On the house."
Vane blinked, surprised.
"That's very kind of you, sir. Thank you."
He lifted his hat in quiet gratitude before turning down the street, bread in one hand, something steadier in his step.
Ahead stood the building where he spent most of his days.
Where numbers made sense.
Where records behaved.
Where life was meant to remain simple.
He walked toward it without knowing that inside the bar he had just left, someone else had begun to pay attention.
Vane stood before the great doors of the club for a moment longer than necessary.
The building rose above him in pale stone, its tall windows catching the afternoon light and throwing it back in softened gold. The carved crest above the entrance — a compass crossed with a quill — had been polished so often it almost gleamed. People passing in the street slowed, whether they meant to or not.
It had that effect.
His hand came up and rested against the wood. The door was warm from the sun.
From inside, a low tide of sound spilled outward — chairs scraping, papers shifting, voices overlapping in steady discussion. No shouting. No laughter. Just the firm rhythm of work.
He pushed the door open.
The scent of ink and parchment met him at once.
The main hall stretched wide and open, long tables arranged in careful symmetry. Clerks leaned over ledgers. Messengers crossed between desks with sealed envelopes tucked beneath their arms. Somewhere near the far window, two men debated over a map spread flat across the table, fingers tracing routes with urgency.
It was busy.
Alive.
Vane walked through the center aisle, boots echoing softly on the polished floor. A few heads lifted.
"Back already?"
"Found what you were looking for?"
He answered with an easy smile and small nods, not slowing his pace. The smile came naturally now — lighter than the one he had worn inside the bar.
He moved toward the staircase leading to the administrative wing.
For the briefest moment, as he climbed, a strange thought crossed his mind —
He imagined the manager behind the door, seated in a cushioned chair, speaking briskly into a small handheld device.
The image was so clear he almost expected to hear a distant ringing sound.
Instead, there was only the scratching of a quill from somewhere inside the office.
Vane paused halfway up the stairs.
His expression shifted — not confusion exactly, but a quiet correction.
Right.
He continued upward.
The corridor above was narrower, quieter. The noise from below dulled into a steady murmur.
He reached the manager's door and raised his hand.
Two firm knocks.
Silence for half a heartbeat.
Then —
"COME IN!"
The voice burst through the wood with such force that Vane stiffened despite himself.
He hadn't expected that much energy.
His fingers lingered on the handle a second longer before he pushed the door inward.