Chapter 1: Neon Tension at the Bar
The bass from the speakers thrummed through the worn leather of the booth, a physical sensation under Svet’s palms as she leaned forward. Her laugh, sharp and bright, cut through the smoky murmur of the bar.
“And then he said—he actually said—‘The prefrontal cortex is just a trend.’ A trend!” She threw her hands up, her silver rings catching the flicker of the faulty neon ‘IPA’ sign above them. “What am I even doing in that class, Edwin? Tell me I’m not wasting my parents’ money.”
Edwin watched the condensation slide down her Celsius can, his own pint of dark ale sitting untouched. He tracked the movement of her fingers, the chipped black polish on her thumbnail, the mismatched stripe on one sock where her ankle rested against the seat. He had catalogued a thousand of these details; they were the scriptures of his quiet religion.
“You’re not wasting it,” he said, his voice a low counterpoint to the music. “You’ll use it to psychoanalyze every bad golfer on the back nine. It’s a public service.”
She grinned, kicking his shin lightly under the table. “You get it. That’s exactly the plan. A full therapeutic intervention for a shanked seven-iron.” She took a long sip, her eyes scanning the room over the rim of the can. They were a shifting, stormy grey in this light. “Play anything new lately?”
He shrugged, a familiar warmth spreading in his chest. This was the question he waited for. “A riff. Something… layered. Acoustic with a synth track under it. Haven’t found the words yet.”
“You will,” she said, with the absolute faith that both buoyed and terrified him. She believed in his music more than he did. Her phone buzzed on the table, screen lighting up with a notification. She ignored it, her gaze settling back on him. “So, is the cop-shop grinding you into paste? You look tired.”
Before he could answer—before he could say Only because I was up until three finishing that track for you—a shadow fell across the table. The scent of citrus and spice cologne arrived a second before the man did.
“Ladies’ night means more than just cheap rosé, Svet. It means you’re required to look this good.”
Marcus slid smoothly into the booth beside her, his movement causing her to shift closer to the wall. His hand, broad and adorned with a single black ring, came to rest on the worn leather seatback, his fingers just brushing the fabric of her shirt where it met the low waist of her jeans. A claiming, casual gesture.
Edwin’s spine straightened an inch, his knuckles going pale around his pint glass.
“Marcus,” Svet said, her smile turning diplomatic. “I didn’t know you were working tonight.”
“Covering for Liam. Saw you glowing from across the bar. Had to pay homage.” His eyes, a practiced shade of warm brown, never left her face. He nodded at Edwin. “Edwin. How’s the record store? Selling any… records?” The pause was deliberate, a slight mocking of Edwin’s quieter world.
“Some,” Edwin said, the word short and flat.
“Cool, cool.” Marcus turned his body fully toward Svet, blocking Edwin out as effectively as a wall. “So, a few of us are hitting that new rooftop spot on Saturday. Vibes are supposed to be insane. You should ditch the textbooks and be a human for a night.”
Svet’s laugh this time was lighter, polite. “Rooftop? I’m more of a ground-floor, easy-escape-route kind of person.”
“Then I’ll be your escape route.” Marcus’s smirk was a challenge thrown directly over her shoulder, aimed at the silent figure opposite. His thumb stroked a slow, absent circle on the seatback, a hair’s breadth from her skin. “Come on. Live a little. You can even bring your minder.”
The air in the booth grew thick. Edwin felt the hum of the bass in his molars. He watched Svet’s face, saw the slight flicker in her eyes—amusement, maybe a hint of flattered annoyance. She was used to attention, but Marcus’s was different. It was a tractor beam, confident and total.
“I’ll check my hectic schedule of naps and rewatching The Office,” Svet said, deflecting with a practiced ease that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She glanced at Edwin, a quick, unreadable flash.
“Do that.” Marcus finally leaned back, but his presence remained, taking up all the oxygen. He tapped the table twice. “Next Celsius is on me. Don’t be a stranger.” He stood up, giving Svet’s shoulder a brief, familiar squeeze before melting back into the crowd toward the bar.
The silence he left behind was louder than the music.
Svet exhaled, a puff of air that stirred the hair around her face. She took a long, deliberate drink, not looking at Edwin.
“He’s… a lot,” she finally said.
“He’s something,” Edwin replied, his voice tighter than he intended. The image of Marcus’s hand on the seatback, the proprietary squeeze, burned behind his eyes.
She finally looked at him. “What’s that tone?”
“No tone.”
“There’s absolutely a tone, Edwin. It’s your ‘I-am-a-sculpture-of-brooding-judgment’ tone.” She mimicked his furrowed brow.
He couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at his mouth. “That’s not a tone. That’s my face.”
“It’s a tell.” She leaned in again, but the space felt different now. Marcus had recalibrated it. “You don’t like him.”
“I don’t know him.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He swirled the ale in his glass, watching the dark liquid cling to the sides. “He treats the whole world like it’s his bar. Everything and everyone is just… inventory.”
She was quiet for a moment, studying him. The noisy chaos of the bar swirled around their silent pocket of space. “He’s just confident. It’s not a crime.”
“No,” Edwin agreed softly. But the way he looks at you is.
Another buzz from her phone. This time she looked down, a faint smile touching her lips as she typed a quick response.
Edwin felt something cold sink through his chest. The track he’d been layering in his head, the one meant for her, began to dissolve into static.
“I should probably head out,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “Early lecture on cognitive bias. Which I am clearly suffering from.” She tried for another laugh, but it faltered.
He just nodded. “Need a walk?”
“I’m good. It’s two blocks.” She slid out of the booth, hoisting her backpack onto one shoulder. She hesitated, looking down at him still sitting in the shadowed leather. “You playing tomorrow night?”
“The usual spot. Ten.”
“I’ll try to make it.” The promise was thin, already stretched by the phantom pressure of a hand on a seatback and the glow of a phone screen.
“Seat’s always open,” he said, the words an old liturgy between them.
She gave him a final, complicated smile—all vibrant hair and stormy eyes and mismatched socks—and turned, weaving through the crowd toward the door. Edwin didn’t watch her go. He stared at the empty space across from him, at the faint imprint her body had left in the leather.
From behind the bar, Marcus caught his eye. The bartender raised a glass in a slow, deliberate salute, his smirk unmistakable. A challenge served neat.
Edwin lifted his own pint, took a long, bitter swallow, and set it down with a decisive click. The unspoken symphony in his chest twisted into a single, discordant note of pure, undiluted fight.