New Atlantis, 10 AM
Ithri returned from his morning walk, his steps slow, his thoughts slower. A crumpled slip of paper in his hand caught his attention again an address scribbled hastily. He followed it, weaving through the sprawling city until the air grew heavier and the streets narrower.
The path twisted downward, leading him toward Callas, where the docks seemed to exhale their filth. Water pooled in the uneven cobblestones, shimmering like tarnished silver under the sun. Shadows clung to the alleys, stretching lazily across walls streaked with salt and grime. Even the usual din of labor and drunken revelry had dulled to a low hum.
The directions pointed to a bar buried in the heart of this mess. Its cracked walls and faded paint whispered defiance as if daring the world to care about its decay. Across the street, a sagging motel leaned into the shadows, its rusted sign swinging like a slow pendulum in the breeze.
Ithri stood at the bar's edge for a moment, his gaze lingering. Then he turned toward the motel instead. No sense rushing headfirst into something blind.
The desk clerk didn't look up as Ithri slid a coin across the counter. A key thunked in response.
The room was as miserable as expected: a narrow bed that looked ready to snap, a desk tilting like a ship in a storm, and the air thick with mildew, salt, and regret. Ithri tossed his coat onto the chair and dragged it across the room to the grime-streaked window.
From here, he could just make out the bar's entrance through the distorted glass. Not much, but it would do.
He dropped into the chair, his eyes fixed on the bar below. If Enigma's contact is in there, I can't afford mistakes.
His fingers found the coin in his pocket, flipping it idly. Its faint glint caught the sunlight, offering him the smallest anchor against the rising tide of unease.
And now, the part he hated most: waiting.
-----
Ithri had been perched by the window for nearly five hours, his gaze locked on the bar below. The port hummed faintly in the background, a medley of creaking chains, barked orders, and the sharp cries of seagulls wheeling over the bay.
The first hour had been tense. His eyes darted to every figure slipping through the bar's weathered door. A woman in a patched coat. A burly man with a limp. Two dockhands laughing over something that carried no weight for him.
By the second hour, boredom pressed in. He dug out a book from his satchel a flimsy attempt to keep his mind sharp while his patience frayed.
Now, the book lay forgotten on the desk, its spine cracked open to a dog-eared page. He sighed, his stomach rumbling its complaint. Five hours, and nothing. The bar sat like a forgotten relic, quiet and unremarkable. 'I'm not dying just for walking in,' he decided, his eyes lingering on the sign swaying in the bay's breeze: La Callas.
The street had come alive beneath him. Dockworkers hauled crates across the uneven cobbles, their shouts punctuating the rhythm of heavy boots. Merchants haggled with sailors, their voices sharp and cutting. Ships groaned against their moorings, chains clanking with the tide.
And yet, the bar remained an island of stillness. No shadows passed behind its dusty windows, and no voices leaked through its warped wooden frame. It didn't seem dangerous just tired. A dive for men who'd drunk away better days.
Ithri stood, stretching stiff limbs, and grabbed his coat. Time to move. Descending the narrow stairs, he stepped into the street, the uneven stones crunching softly beneath his boots. He crossed toward the bar, his eyes flicking briefly to the swinging sign as he approached.
The door was heavier than expected, groaning as he shoved it open.
The smell hit first: stale ale and the tang of old wood soaked in years of spilled liquor. The air was heavy, almost damp like the room itself had given up trying to breathe.
The light inside was dim, the kind that blurred edges and made shadows stretch unnaturally. Tables bore the scars of knives and neglect, their surfaces scratched and pitted. Chairs sat mismatched and uneven, their legs wobbling with every shift of weight.
Behind the bar stood a man carved from stone or so it seemed. He was broad and solid, his bald head gleaming faintly in the lantern light. A permanent scowl anchored his features, though it seemed more from habit than hostility. His hands moved with steady precision, shaking a cocktail shaker that looked out of place in a bar like this.
The bartender's eyes flicked to Ithri as the door closed behind him. "What'll it be?" he asked, voice gravelly, worn, but not unfriendly.
Ithri took a slow step forward, his boots creaking against the warped floorboards. The room was nearly empty, save for a sailor sprawled in the corner, his snores soft and rhythmic.
"I'm looking for someone," Ithri said, his tone light, almost casual, as he approached the bar. His eyes scanned the room again, searching for any sign of familiarity or danger.
The bartender raised an eyebrow, the faintest flicker of curiosity crossing his face. But he said nothing, sliding a glass across the counter and pouring a splash of dark liquor into it. " Everyone's looking for someone " he muttered. " Drink or don't, but don't waste my time. "
Ithri took a seat, his fingers absently tracing the grooves etched into the counter. "A specific someone " he said, voice steady but low.
The bartender froze mid-pour, his sharp eyes locking onto Ithri. Setting the bottle down with deliberate care, he leaned forward slightly. "Who?"
Ithri leaned closer, his voice a sharp whisper. "Enigma sent me. Said I'd find what I'm looking for here. Said I'd be recruited."
The room seemed to hold its breath, the air thickening with an unspoken weight. The bartender's scowl deepened, but his hands moved with an unnerving calm as he set the glass in front of Ithri.
"Enigma," the bartender repeated, his voice a low growl, his sharp gaze pinning Ithri like a hawk sizing up its prey. He wiped his hands on a grimy rag, his movements slow, deliberate. "You've got nerve, kid. Dropping that name in here. But nerve doesn't guarantee you'll walk out the same way."
Ithri met his gaze without wavering. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't know what I was walking into."
A hollow chuckle rumbled in the bartender's chest. "That's what they all say."
Ithri glanced around the room, weighing his next move. "So, where should I wait? Or is he already here?"
The bartender gestured vaguely to the back. "Pick a spot. Make yourself useful by staying outta sight."
Suppressing a sigh, Ithri moved toward a shadowed corner, his boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. ' Another waiting game ' he thought.
As he eased into his seat, the shadows of the room wrapped around him like a cloak. He raised a hand, signaling for a drink.
The bartender grunted but obliged, sliding a glass of dark amber liquid toward Ithri with more force than finesse. "Here."
Ithri raised the glass in silent thanks, then leaned back, taking in the room's movements. The bar's hum of conversation and clinking glasses blurred into a background murmur.
The hour passed slowly, the minutes dragging under the weight of anticipation. Ithri nursed his drink, the faint burn of the liquor barely registering as his mind churned over the bartender's cryptic words and the mystery of what came next.
One hour later, the door creaked open, pulling Ithri from his thoughts.
A woman stepped inside, no older than twenty-seven. Her short, dark hair framed a sharp jawline, her confident stride drawing attention without effort. Behind her was a man in his early forties, his weathered face marked by a scar that ran jaggedly from his temple to his jaw.
The pair exchanged a brief word with the bartender, who gave a curt nod toward Ithri's.
Without hesitation, they crossed the room.
The man's faint smile grew as her piercing green eyes locked onto Ithri's. "Welcome to The Drunk Group."