A glass shatters as someone slams into the bar. “Guess drinks are free now!”
I hear movement near the entrance and the handle rattles. “Hey—fuck. It’s locked,” says the guy who’s been bragging all night about knowing how this city works.
A second later, more footsteps crowd the door. “No, seriously—it’s not opening.” The metal rattles harder.
A barstool screeches across the floor. “What the fuck, Jax?”
I can’t pay attention to them because as I flex my hand, the seam splits open and warm wetness slides across my palm.
Fuck.
“Relax,” I bark into the dark. “It’s old wiring. Lights’ll be back in a second. Now quit panicking and push the damn door.”
I curl my fist fast, hiding it below the counter, but the tar pushes outward anyway—thick, slow, alive—threading between my fingers like it wants air.
“Enough,” I hiss, and usually that works, usually it listens in here, but instead the pressure builds and my heartbeat syncs with it.
Someone kicks the door. Another drunk genius grabs a chair. “Move—I got it!”
I hear the wood slamming against the steel. The impact echoes and every sound drills into my skull.
I shift, and my denim zipper drags, sending a sharp, unwelcome pulse through me.Bad timing. Real bad fucking timing.My cock hardens. My palm leaks, and the tar surges.
I see it clearly in the dark. Thin black veins stretch from my hand across the floorboards, sliding under tables, under shoes, reaching unnoticed.
A man near the window jerks suddenly, his hand flying to his throat. He lets out a choking cough.
“What—hey—you good?” the guy who joked about the curse says, and he’s not laughing anymore.
I can see the tar wrapping slow around his neck, tightening like a patient rope. Someone near him squints toward me. “Look?—”
Another voice whispers, too low but I hear it. “His eyes…”
I blink hard, the tar tightens and the choking gets worse. A glass explodes somewhere, and then, from upstairs, I hear a bark. My entire body blinks in awareness.Scotch.
All I hear is Sisk’s voice in my head from a hundred nights ago. I slam my palm flat against the bar. “Stop.” The word tears out of me like a command. The tar recoils instantly. It snaps back through bone and nerve like something yanked on a chain.
The man sinks to his knees, sucking air like he ran a mile.
My fist clenches hard and the tar tries to push outward anyway daring me. I feel the urge to let it go. To let it crawl up their legs. To remind everyone exactly why voices drop when I walk in.
I repeat to myself:Scotch. Scotch. Scotch. Stop. Control.I drag it every inch back until pain detonates up my arm like something ripping through tendon.
The door unlocks as the lights slam back on. Everyone freezes, blinking and disoriented, then people start talking all at once, arguments rising immediately.
“City grid’s fucked?—”
“Told you this block’s cursed?—”
Every sound drills straight into my skull.
I want them gone. All of them.
I check the clock behind the bar. 1:19.
She should’ve been here by now; it’s way too late to still be practicing or teaching. I tell myself not to start, because Sisk hates when I hover, says I look at her like she’s glass. She hates being checked on, hates feeling watched, says freedom matters, that she needs space to breathe. I understand that. I don’t trust this city to let her have it.
She’s always been like that—brave in ways that border reckless, walking home alone, taking late trains, smiling at danger like she’s untouchable.I love her for it, and I hate her for it.If it were up to me, she’d never step foot outside my apartment after dark, not because I don’t trust her, but because I know exactly what lives here.
