---
**In the Bar**
---
The bar was cloaked in dim, smoky light, the kind that blurred the edges of reality. The smell of old wood and stale alcohol lingered, adding to the heavy, worn-out atmosphere. When Ram and his men entered, their footsteps barely made a sound, swallowed by the suffocating stillness. It was the kind of place where questions were dangerous and answers were sold at a high price.
At the counter, an old bartender was slowly polishing glass cups, each movement methodical and deliberate. He was a man whose presence seemed etched into the bar itself—silent, watchful, unmoved by the world's chaos. Ram approached, his face a mask of calm determination, and took a seat without saying a word. Charly and Demi followed, settling quietly beside him, their eyes alert, their postures tense.
For a moment, nothing happened. The bartender continued his slow work, the only sound in the room the faint clink of glass on wood. Then, as if acknowledging the inevitable, the bartender finally spoke, his voice gravelly and roughened by years of quiet observation.
"What can I get you, sir?"
Ram didn't look at him. His eyes were fixed on the rows of bottles behind the counter, their labels a blur of faded names and forgotten histories. "The usual. With special red berries in the red cup."
The bartender's hand paused mid-polish. The smile he'd worn when they entered vanished, replaced by a stony, unreadable expression. His entire demeanor changed in an instant—gone was the casual indifference, replaced by something far colder, something dangerous. When he spoke again, his voice was flat, almost robotic.
"What can I do for you?" he asked, his tone respectful but hollow, as though he were performing a duty rather than engaging in conversation. His face was still, but his eyes—the eyes of a man who had seen too much—betrayed a flicker of something deeper. There was a weight in those eyes, a lifetime's worth of stories untold.
Ram leaned forward, his voice steady but edged with purpose. "We're looking for a man named Gunnar. He was a businessman in the East."
The bartender's eyes narrowed slightly, though his face remained emotionless. He looked Ram up and down, sizing him up. "You look like you're from a rich family," he said finally, his voice low and rough. "If you're asking an old man like me for advice, I'd say go back to where you came from. This isn't a game for kids."
Charly, seated beside Ram, bristled at the remark. His patience had never been his strong suit, and the bartender's dismissive tone grated on him. "We're not here for games," Charly snapped, his tone sharp. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes flashing with irritation.
Before Charly could say more, Ram raised a hand, silencing him with a calm, firm gesture. "Let him speak," Ram said, his voice soft but commanding.
Charly bit back his frustration, settling back into his chair with a huff, though his fists remained clenched. Demi, seated on Ram's other side, stayed silent, his dark eyes scanning the room with quiet intensity. His expression was unreadable, but there was a quiet storm behind his gaze, a coiled tension that suggested he was ready for anything.
Ram, his face impassive, turned back to the bartender. "What's the real story?"
The bartender sighed, a long, weary sound. His voice dropped lower, carrying the weight of long-buried secrets. "If you're that eager to die, I won't stop you," he said flatly. "But listen closely."
He began speaking, his voice mechanical, emotionless, as if reciting a tale he had no interest in anymore. "The man you're looking for—Gunnar—was an orphan. He met a girl in high school, fell in love, and they got married right after graduation. For a while, things were good. He started a business in marine exports and imports, and he became successful."
The bartender paused, as if measuring how much to reveal. "But then things went south. On one of his business trips, he befriended an Indian businesswoman and her husband. But soon after, his wife died giving birth to their child."
Ram's eyes flickered with a hint of emotion, but he remained silent, listening.
"After that, Gunnar was hardly ever home. He threw himself into his work, visiting his son only once or twice a year. Then, two years later, he came back. Quit all his international ventures and moved with his child to a house in the countryside. They stayed there, out of sight, for seventeen years. Peaceful, quiet. Until his daughter started high school."
Ram leaned in slightly, his voice cold but focused. "His son and daughter—what are their names?"
The bartender smirked slightly, a knowing gleam in his eyes. "Names cost extra, friend. You want those, you'll have to pay."
Ram's jaw tightened, but he nodded curtly. "Continue."
The bartender leaned back, as if considering his next words. "His son's name is Jonathan Gunnarson. His daughter is Margret Gunnarsdotter. She was a beauty, and that didn't go unnoticed. A lot of boys wanted her, but no one had the guts to approach. Not with her father and brother around. Not until Jam came along."
The air seemed to grow heavier at the mention of the name, like a storm cloud settling over the room. Ram's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes.
"Jam wasn't just some spoiled rich kid," the bartender continued, his voice lowering. "He was the son of the most powerful mafia group in the U.S. and Japan—Black Eagles and Black Dragon. His father, Jon Smith, leads the Black Eagles. His mother, Sakura Haruko, was the granddaughter of the Black Dragon's leader, Shinobu Haruko. Their marriage was political, meant to unite the two groups. But Sakura died shortly after giving birth to Jam. Some say it was an accident. Others say suicide."
Ram's eyes darkened. "And Jam?"
"Jam was their only heir," the bartender continued, his voice grim. "And he wasn't used to being told no. So when he saw Margret, he became obsessed. When she rejected him, he didn't take it well. Tried to force himself on her. Jonathan beat him until he couldn't stand."
A bitter smile crept across the bartender's face. "But Jam wasn't the type to let something like that slide. That night, he came back with his men. But Gunnar was home. He and Jonathan fought them off—broke Jam's legs, crushed his hand. He lost it permanently."
Ram's face remained a mask of calm, but inside, a storm was brewing. His voice, when he spoke, was low. "And then?"
"The next morning, the mafia retaliated. They attacked the house. Rumor has it Gunnar's dead. Jonathan's been captured. Margret… she escaped."
Ram's grip tightened on the edge of the bar, his mind racing. **What would he tell Ammala if Margret was gone?**
"So Margret is still out there," Ram said quietly, his voice steady despite the turmoil building within him. The bartender nodded slowly, his expression unreadable.
Continue -
---