The bar was filled with clinking glasses, laughter, and the loud music of the jukebox in the corner. It was a Wednesday night, but in **Ethan's Pub**, every night was the weekend.
A light scent of whiskey lingered in the air, mixing with the smell of fried foods coming from the kitchen in the back.
The warm, golden lights created an ambiance of familiarity and warmth, which was a far cry from the life of **Michael **, who had long since forgotten what comfort was.
Michael sat in a corner of the bar, sipping a nearly full glass of bourbon. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was stubbled and looked rumpled.
That razor-sharp edge he once had — the brilliant attorney who seemed to have it all — was now submerged in self-doubt and alcohol.
**Ethan Grayson**, his childhood friend and owner of the pub, stood behind the counter and watched. Ethan and Michael had grown up together; they'd met on the city's rough streets and had become the best of friends.
He knew more than anyone that Michael could have become one of the world's finest lawyers. But all of that potential had disappeared over the years, replaced by this Michael: bitter, lost, grappling with his own failure.
"Are you sure you don't want another drink, Mikey?" Ethan shouted from the bar, trying to get Michael's attention.
Michael raised his glass, looking at the brown liquid inside as if it held the solution to all his problems. "No thanks, Ethan. I'm fine."
**Marcus "Big Guy" Ryan**, a patron who'd had one too many, swaggered up to Michael's table in an attitude only sustained by someone with a bruised ego. His huge body eclipsed the weak light, and his accusatory voice weighed heavily.
"You think you're so smart, don't you? Cheating at darts? That's not cool, Mikey," Marcus said, stretching over Michael's table.
Michael scarcely glanced up, and a faint smile creased his face. "Oh, come on. You didn't actually believe I was cheating, did you, Marcus? I'd sooner lose than win and not do anything."
Marcus's face turned red with anger because the insult hurt more than expected. "You are challenging me on my own ground?"
Michael, never one who was slow to talk, just smiled. "You're doing all right by yourself, you don't need my help."
The atmosphere was tense. Without speaking a word, Marcus pounded the table with his hand, making some of the empty glasses fall over. "Alright, if you think you're better than me, let's see how you do this."
A brawl erupted immediately. Chairs were knocked over, and the bar was in disarray as the patrons attempted to get out of the way. Michael acted quickly, and it was simple for him to avoid Marcus's wild swings.
His fast reflexes and fast movements made him difficult to hit.
He dodged, sidestepped, and struck back, but the alcohol in his system threw off his timing slightly. Every punch landed with more power than it should have.
Ethan emerged from behind the bar, appearing quite shaken. He hastily seized Michael by the arm and yanked him back from Marcus before things got out of control.
"Knock it off, Mikey! This is not a street fight. You might lose more than this!"
Michael took a step back, his breathing in ragged gasping breaths. "Let me go, Ethan. I'm okay."
Ethan pulled her in closer. "No, you're not. Look at you. You're sacrificing everything. You can do better than this."
Michael moved back about, a stool toppling to the ground as he did. "Better than what, then?" he sneered. "Better than being a failed lawyer who can't even get his own life together? Or are you talking about the dream that I was meant to pursue, then?
Here's a fact, Ethan — dreams don't pay the rent." His tone was bitter, each word laced with years of anger and disdain for himself.
Ethan's eyes eased, but his voice was firm. "You're still the smartest guy I know, Mikey. You don't belong here, drunk and fighting. That's not who you are."
Michael stared at him for what felt like hours, then shook his head, as if trying to shake his friend's words from his head. "I don't fit in anywhere, Ethan. I've spent my whole life pretending to be something I'm not."
Ethan sighed and massaged the back of his neck. "I'm not asking you to go back, Mikey. Just for tonight, please, let me assist you. Stay. Sleep. You don't have to keep running."
Michael stared at him for an instant, too arrogant to admit how lost he actually was. "I don't need your pity."
He spun around and sped out of the bar, the door closing hard behind him. The night air was a shock, but it was a minor relief after the thick tension within.
He walked aimlessly down the deserted streets, the neon lights flashing in the distance, casting long shadows on the broken sidewalks.
His mind was racing, replaying the battle with Ethan, but nothing helped. The weight of his decisions was too heavy to disregard. With each step, Michael's heart grew heavier, as if he were trudging through thick mud.
He wanted to escape. He needed something — anything — to make sense of the mess his life had become.
Then, as if the universe had something to say back to him in a very odd manner, an odd light appeared before him.
Michael halted his walk and peered into the black alleyway in front of him. It had looked like a busted streetlamp at first, but then it began to take shape. A swirling combination of gold and silver light materialized, swirling in the air like the Northern Lights.
"What the hell…"
The light intensified, pulling him closer, and the rim of the whirlpool hummed with energy. Michael's inner voice cried out to him to leave, to flee this bizarre phenomenon. But his curiosity — or perhaps desperation — rooted him where he stood.
When the light increased, it engulfed him, and in a matter of seconds, the world around Michael shifted. The earth beneath him seemed to shift, and his body felt as if it were weightless. For a split second, Michael experienced the sensation of falling through time. He then lost all sense of sight.
---
The Courtroom
Michael suddenly sat up, gasping. He was not in the alley anymore or walking through the streets of the city. Instead, he was sitting in a massive, magical courtroom he had never seen before.
Symbols on the walls were intricately detailed, glowing softly in various hues, illuminating the dark space. Shapes in various forms and sizes occupied the room, their eyes regarding him with curiosity and judgment. Some resembled humans, others ghostly, others animal-like — beings from various worlds of existence.
In the midst of all, on a dark stone and silver throne, there sat a figure wrapped in mist. Their face was concealed, and their form was but half visible, but the air around them was charged.
Michael stepped back reflexively, his heart pounding. He had no idea whether he was dreaming, hallucinating, or stuck in a strange alternate reality.
"Michael ." The voice that echoed in the room was deep and commanding, with an authority that sent shivers running down his spine. "You have been summoned."
Michael blinked in confusion at the rapid transformation that was taking place around him. He attempted to speak, but his words caught in his throat.
Was this a trick? A joke? Had he gone completely mad?
"Great," Michael muttered to himself, confused and exhausted. "I'm either dead, or someone poisoned my drink."
The person on the throne changed position. Slowly and gracefully, it stood up from its chair, and the surrounding mist moved like it was alive. It headed to Michael, and with every step, the air grew colder and denser.
The echo of its footsteps in the big, silent room was heard. The air grew colder and denser with every step it took towards Michael.
"Step forward, Michael," the figure again said, its voice even stronger than the first time.
Michael's mind was racing as he inched ahead slowly, the air thick with doubt. All his instincts were screaming at him to turn around and flee, but he was paralyzed. It was as if chains had bound him, holding him fast.
The figure halted directly in front of him, and Michael stretched his neck to glimpse the golden sheen of its eyes. The illumination of the eyes made him little and insignificant.
"Justice Arin," the figure announced, its voice echoing in the room. "Your destiny has been sealed. You will be the attorney of this court." Michael's breath was caught in his throat. He tried to talk, but his mouth was agape in futility.
And then, with a flick of Justice Arin's hand, the room fell silent, leaving Michael standing alone in the eerie quiet, surrounded by those watching eyes. What had he gotten himself into?