That guy had troubles at home, the woman was a housewife, and that man might have just been promoted. The club's neon lights flickered as the electronic music crashed into Ethan's ears. He sat at the bar, watching the ebb and flow of the crowd, searching for his target—yet, he couldn't seem to find her.
"Uh... Can I just get something with Coke?"
"I'm sorry, but I'll need to see your ID,"
the bartender asked politely. Damn, even with basic disguise, did he still look like a high school kid? He was nearly graduated, after all—well, technically, he still had a week to go before it was official, but he hadn't been back to school since finishing his VCE exams in mid-November. Ethan fished in his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed his driver's license to the bartender.
"Sorry, buddy, it's the law; we have to check."
The bartender, who looked at least in his 30s or 40s—who knew how long he'd worked here or if he'd gone deaf from all the noise—glanced at the ID and smiled as he handed it back.
"Looks all good. How about a Long Island?"
Ethan nodded. It was nice to be of age... The bartender mixed vodka, gin, rum, tequila, triple sec, and cola into a Collins glass. Goodness, that was a lot of bottles.
"This your first time in a place like this?"
the bartender asked, setting the drink in front of Ethan. He handed over some cash, which the bartender pocketed while taking a towel from his shoulder to wipe down a glass—though it only seemed to get dirtier.
"What gave me away?"
"Ha, you hang around a place like this as long as I have, you start to notice things."
"Maybe you don't have to be around that long to figure it out."
"Oh, really? Care to make a wager?"
"Sure. What's the bet?"
The bartender pointed to a woman in one of the booth seats.
"Her. Guess her profession. Whoever gets closer wins."
"What's at stake?"
"If you win, I'll cover your tab. If you lose, you buy another round. Deal?"
"You go first."
"I'd say she's a lawyer. Only lawyers carry themselves like that and have bags like that—plus, she looks excited, so I'd guess she just won a case."
Ethan smirked, took a sniff of his drink—mostly cola scent, not too strong—then sipped. It was sweet and surprisingly tasty, not at all like the harsh alcohol he expected.
"If that's the best you can do, then I'll just take my eighteen dollars now."
"Oh, slow down, champ. What's your brilliant guess?"
"First, she's not a lawyer—maybe she used to be, but not anymore. Do you think someone with a job goes out on a Tuesday night at 11 p.m.? And second, she's excited because she's a housewife, fed up with domestic life, and probably here for an affair. So my guess is the guy with her is her target."
"That first point might make some sense, but what's your reasoning for the second?"
"Look at her hands. She's gone out of her way to get a tan, but there's a pale band where her ring should be. Someone with the time to tan like that isn't in financial trouble, which suggests a stable household. In this economy, it's rare for one salary to support a whole family, so I bet her husband's under a lot of stress."
"...I think you might have won this one."
"Aren't you going to ask her?"
"No need. Let's call it a friendly exchange."
The bartender placed the cash Ethan had given him back on the counter. Ethan smiled and pocketed it—it had the bartender's phone number on it, too.
"Thanks."
"I'll recommend you if anyone's ever in need of a private eye."
"Who turns down business, right?" Ethan took another sip of his drink—it really was good, way better than the sour, bitter taste of his grandmother's wine that he'd snuck as a kid. He remembered swearing he'd never steal a sip again after that.
"So why's a schoolboy out here at 11 p.m. on a Tuesday? School's not out for another while, right?"
"I'm not here for fun. I'm working."
"Oh, really? You're a real detective then?"
"Yes, I'm looking for someone."
"...You really are, huh."
"Hex Salvatore—does that name ring a bell?"
The bartender shook his head.
"Never heard of them. But descriptions work better than names."
"Five foot tall, black hair, female, pale skin, very thin. Looks underage because she is underage."
Another shake of the head, and the bartender resignedly set down the hopelessly dirty glass.
"If she's really underage, she wouldn't have made it past the bouncers. They'd have stopped her outside."
"Alright, how about Kennedy Archie?"
"Ah! Him, I know. Kenny boy—he comes here often."
"Anything unusual happen the last time he was here?"
"Not really. Unless you count the time he ducked out back saying he needed the restroom when it came time to settle his tab and never came back. Damn kid owes me; if he shows up again, I'm gonna make him cough up every cent."
Kennedy Archie had vanished after leaving the club, only for his dismembered body to wash up weeks later at Melbourne Harbor...wait.
Hadn't the police already interviewed everyone here?
Ethan's eyes snapped back to the smiling bartender, a chill creeping up his spine as a realization hit him. How could this man not know?
"What's the matter?"
"N-nothing. I should get going. Seems like there's no lead here anyway..."
Ethan turned, forcing himself to walk normally toward the exit, ignoring the slight tremor in his hands.
The bartender's smile vanished as he watched Ethan leave. He frowned, pulled out a phone, and dialed speed-dial number one. As soon as the call connected, before the person on the other end could speak, he warned in a grim voice:
"Someone's getting close to you."
...
"Ghoul... ghoul..."
Harvey strolled along Melbourne's Southbank, clad in a shirt, tie, and beige trench coat over polished shoes. At this hour, the riverside was quiet, the dark Yarra waters flowing toward Port Phillip Bay. V's intel had given him the likely hunting grounds of the young ghoul—south of the city center. Oddly enough, the city's usual cadre of hunters and exorcists had cleaned up most of the supernatural threats, allowing a creature not even half a year old to stake out prime territory like this.
Timing suggested its next meal was soon, so Harvey prepared to be the bait. Usually, that was a assistances job, but he had to work solo tonight.
One hand was in his pocket, gripping a revolver loaded with silver bullets. A cigarette's ember glowed in the darkness as he made his way to the creature's den.
It had cleverly chosen a spot close to civilization, dealing with its scraps at the harbor. Initially, even he thought it nested nearby. But it never anticipated being caught on camera entering its true lair—or that all three victims had visited the same nightclub before their deaths.
A small detail, easily overlooked—until that photo made it glaringly clear.