Chapter 6: The Aftermath at the Bar
The bus ride across town was a blur of fluorescent lights and the muted roar of the engine. Levy kept her hands clenched in the pockets of her coat, the library vest rough against her knuckles. She replayed the shattering of the casserole dish in her mind, the sound better than any applause. But in the quiet moments between stops, a cold trickle of doubt seeped in. Potential. Zeref had said she had potential. It was the same word she used for patron’s half-finished manuscripts. It was not a word of affection. It was a assessment of utility.
The Guild Hall was a welcome assault on the senses. The flickering neon painted the sidewalk in erratic strokes of pink. She pushed through the heavy door, and the wall of sound—the thrumming bass of the jukebox, the layered cacophony of a dozen conversations, the clatter of glass—washed over her, scrubbing away the library’s sterile quiet. The air was thick with the smell of yeast, sweat, and the underlying chemical tang of cheap cleaning solution.
Cana was behind the bar, a whirlwind of efficiency and contained chaos. She was draining a pint, her brow furrowed in concentration, a cigarette dangling from her lips despite the city ordinances. She saw Levy, and her expression shifted instantly. The concentration melted into a wide, wicked grin. She slammed the pint glass down, ash tumbling from her cigarette into the drain tray.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Cana called over the music, her voice a whiskey-rasp. “And she’s still wearing her librarian uniform. Bold choice. Get over here.”
Levy slid onto a stool at the end of the bar, the vinyl squeaking under her. The stool was still warm from someone else’s body. She let her bag drop to the floor with a thud.
“Whiskey. Neat,” Levy said. Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears, lower, steadier than she felt.
“That’s my girl.” Cana didn’t ask for clarification. She grabbed a bottle of mid-shelf bourbon and poured two fingers into a clean glass. She slid it across the polished wood. “Now. Start talking. I want the director’s commentary.”
Levy took the glass, let the heat of the liquor hit her palm before bringing it to her lips. The burn was immediate and clarifying. She took a slow sip, then launched into it. The quiet library, the golden afternoon light, their concerned faces. Jet’s grip on her wrist. Droy’s casserole. She described it all with the detached, vivid precision of a novelist, watching Cana’s face for reactions.
Cana listened, wiping down the same spot on the bar with a damp rag in slow, circular motions. Her grin never faded; it just changed texture. At the casserole’s demise, she let out a sharp bark of laughter that cut through the surrounding chatter. “A direct hit on the Churchill section? Poetic.”
“It was biography,” Levy corrected automatically, then took another drink.
“Even better.” Cana leaned her elbows on the bar, getting closer. The scent of tobacco and citrus perfume enveloped Levy. “And you told them? You used the words ‘getting laid’?”
“I did.”
“And his face? Jet’s. What did it do?”
Levy closed her eyes for a second, summoning the image. “It… cycled. Like a faulty slide projector. Shock. Denial. Then this… congested purple. Like a bruise forming from the inside out.”
Cana whistled, low and appreciative. “Beautiful. A work of art. And the other one? Droy?”
“He looked at the mess on the floor like I’d just drowned his puppy.” Levy swirled the amber liquid in her glass. “He said I was talking crazy. That I didn’t mean it.”
“Of course he did.” Cana straightened up, flicking her cigarette ash away. “Their entire world just got a syntax error. The program can’t run. So, the sweet, innocent little library girl must be malfunctioning.” She poured herself a shot, knocked it back without a flinch. “But here’s the question you didn’t answer on the bus. How did it feel? To say it. To watch the shrapnel fly.”
Levy was quiet for a long moment. She let the sounds of the bar fill the space: a burst of raucous laughter from a booth, the clink of pool balls, the mournful wail of the saxophone from the jukebox. She searched for the right metaphor. It wasn’t triumph. It wasn’t relief. It was something cleaner.
“It felt,” she said slowly, “like I finally found the right line of dialogue for a character I’ve been writing wrong for years. The one that makes everything else click into place. Even if what clicks is… ugly.”
Cana’s eyes gleamed with approval. “That’s because it’s true. Ugly truth beats pretty lies every fucking time.” She leaned in again, her voice dropping, intimate despite the noise. “So. The source material. Zeref called me this afternoon.”
Levy’s throat tightened. She kept her gaze on her whiskey. “Oh?”
“He’s a man of few words. You know this. He said, and I quote: ‘The subject’s tolerances are higher than initial projections. The data from the first session suggests productive avenues for further study.’ Then he asked if you were amenable to continuing the experiment.”
Subject. Data. Projections. The words were ice cubes down Levy’s spine. Yet, they were also meticulously clean. No false sentiment. No casserole.
“What did you say?” Levy asked.
“I said I’d ask the subject.” Cana’s smile was all teeth. “So? Are you? Amenable?”
Levy thought of Jet’s purpling face. Of Droy’s broken dish. She thought of Zeref’s cold, observant eyes, the way he’d cataloged every flinch and gasp as if it were valuable intelligence. He hadn’t seen a darling little sister. He’d seen a collection of interesting reactions. It was dehumanizing. It was also, perversely, the most seen she’d ever felt.
The ache between her legs had faded to a faint, metallic memory. The ache in her chest, the one born of years of gentle, smothering curation, was sharper.
“What would the… study entail?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
“He didn’t specify. That’s part of it. You show up. You consent to the parameters he establishes for the evening. You observe. He observes. You both learn something.” Cana shrugged. “Could be conversation. Could be something that requires a safeword. He’s methodological, not a monster. The point is, it’s a transaction with clearly defined, if unpublished, terms. No one’s going to tell you you’re too innocent for it. They’re going to assume you’re exactly as capable as you prove yourself to be.”
Levy drained the last of her whiskey. The burn settled in her stomach, a small, contained fire.
“Tell him I’m amenable,” she said.
Cana’s grin could have powered the flickering neon sign. “Attagirl.” She pulled out her phone, her thumbs flying over the screen. A moment later, a soft ping answered her. She read it, her smirk deepening. “He says tonight is suitable. His place. Ten o’clock. He’ll text the address.”
Tonight. The word was a door slamming shut behind her. There was no bus ride home to change her mind, to fall back into the old narrative. The momentum was terrifying. It was everything.
“Okay,” Levy said, the word barely a whisper.
Cana reached across the bar and squeezed her hand. The gesture was unexpectedly gentle. “You want another for the road? Liquid courage?”
Levy shook her head. “No. I think I need to feel this. All of it.” She stood up, her legs steadier than she expected. She left cash on the bar, next to the empty glass.
“Go get ‘em, tiger,” Cana said, winking. “And for God’s sake, lose the vest.”
Levy walked back out into the cool night, shrugging off the khaki vest as she went. She folded it neatly, a ritual of shedding a skin, and placed it in her bag. The night air felt different on her arms—colder, more real. She checked her phone. 9:07 PM. She had just under an hour to decide who, exactly, was going to walk into that penthouse.
She started walking, not toward the bus stop, but aimlessly, letting the city’s chaotic rhythm absorb her. The ghost of whiskey on her tongue, the memory of shattered ceramic on polished floor, the promise of a cold, clinical study in a room high above it all. She was no one’s sweetheart. No one’s little sister. She was a subject with potential. A character finally writing her own next line. She turned a corner, the wind picking up, and walked faster, a petite, blue-haired figure disappearing into the vast, anonymous dark, heading toward a very specific, brightly-lit point of data collection.