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墨書 Inktalez
The air in the bar was thick with the familiar scents of alcohol and smoke, but today, this well-known aroma could not mask the eerie atmosphere that filled the space.
Marco stood by the bar, arms crossed over his chest, coldly observing the unusual gathering before him. The bar had not yet opened; the iron shutter was down, and the dim yellow light cast weary shadows across the empty room. The bottles on the wall glimmered faintly, reflecting the confusion and unease on everyone's faces.
The owner stood in the center, his hat pulled low, his heavy coat adding to his imposing presence. He clutched several stacks of cash in his hands and silently surveyed the group of employees, his expression devoid of any excess emotion, as if he were examining a crowd of strangers. Then, he began to distribute envelopes filled with money without saying a word, as if this were merely a routine payday.
But soon, everyone realized this was not a payday; it was a dismissal.
"I'm leaving this city," the owner finally spoke, his voice low and firm, without a hint of hesitation. "The bar is closing down. Consider this money as severance pay. Let's part ways amicably."
A heavy silence enveloped the room as employees exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from confusion to anger.
"What do you mean?" someone frowned, their tone dissatisfied. "You can't just close down like that! There are so many of us! Isn't business here always good?"
The owner shook his head, as if he had anticipated such a reaction. He let out a resigned chuckle, but there was no joy in it—only a cold indifference that suggested he had seen it all before.
"This city is finished; can't you see that?" His voice grew even deeper, sounding like a heavy warning. "If you have any sense left, you should be thinking about how to get out now. Sooner or later, this place will become a graveyard; no one will survive."
Someone scoffed lightly, full of disdain. "Come on! This city has always been like this, hasn't it? Just because you say it's over doesn't mean it is! What are you really afraid of?"
The owner did not respond immediately; he merely raised his gaze slightly and scanned each face with a deep intensity before shaking his head gently, as if looking at a group of stubborn fools. He chuckled softly, his tone laced with coldness: "Suit yourselves. If you don't want to leave, then keep running this bar; I'm leaving regardless."
With that, he ignored their reactions and pushed past those blocking his way, striding toward the door. As the iron gate swung open, a cold wind rushed in; the night outside was mercilessly indifferent, like a great beast quietly surveying the ruins of the city.
Marco remained by the bar, silent as he watched the owner's figure gradually disappear into the darkness. He understood all too well that the owner was not afraid; he had seen some truth that they had yet to recognize—the city was truly nearing its end.
The figure of the boss vanished into the night, leaving the bar enveloped in an eerie silence.
A few employees stood frozen in place, silently staring at the door, unable to accept what had just transpired. But the silence did not last long—someone began to move.
A man was the first to strip off his uniform, crumpling it into a ball and throwing it to the ground with a dull thud. His expression bore no anger, only disappointment and resignation. Soon, another followed suit, then a third, a fourth… The fabric of the uniforms was wrinkled and tossed aside, like discarded remnants of the past.
“Damn it, I should have left long ago,” someone muttered under their breath before turning to leave.
“What’s wrong with this city? Even the bars are going under?” another shook his head, his tone heavy with unspoken fatigue, before he too walked away.
Footsteps echoed as more and more people departed, until finally, only Marco remained in the empty bar.
He stood by the counter, wordlessly gazing at the uniforms strewn across the floor. Those crumpled fabrics seemed to still hold a trace of warmth, remnants of laughter and chatter from just moments ago. A few hours earlier, this place had been alive; now it felt like an abandoned graveyard.
He sighed softly, crouching down to pick up one of the uniforms. As his fingers brushed against the fabric, he realized it still carried a faint warmth—this space had recently been filled with voices and noise. But now, it lay silent and desolate.
He stood quietly for a moment, contemplating. Finally, he pulled out a chair and sat down heavily.
Why hadn’t he left too?
He didn’t know. He owed nothing to this establishment or this city, yet he remained here as if some invisible force held him in place. Perhaps it was because he was unaccustomed to change; perhaps this bar was the place he had spent the longest time. Or maybe—he sensed that fate was about to reveal itself here.
He wasn’t superstitious by nature, but he had experienced too many strange occurrences in his life; his intuition had never failed him.
"Well... let's just do it," Marco murmured to himself, his tone laced with a resigned acceptance. He looked up at the bar, a faint, bitter smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "After all, I've learned a few tricks from behind the bar..."
He stood up, brushed off the dust from his uniform, and casually tossed it aside. Then he walked over to the bar, skillfully grabbed a bottle of liquor, uncorked it, and poured himself a drink. He gazed at the transparent liquid reflecting a glimmer of light and thought that perhaps this bar could hold on for a while longer. He could stay here and watch whether this city would spiral into ruin or continue to struggle for survival.
Regardless, he had decided to stay tonight.
As night fell, the neon lights flickered erratically along the streets, as if desperately trying to sustain the last breath of the city. The bar door swung open, and the bell above it let out a weary chime. A few patrons trickled in, carrying the dust of travel and the weariness of the city with them. Marco stood behind the bar, took a deep breath, and prepared himself for a chaotic night ahead.
For now, he was alone in this bar.
No one was there to serve drinks, no one to clean the tables, and no one to deal with the mess left by drunken customers; all responsibilities rested on his shoulders. He moved slowly, almost lazily, but that was because he had no desire to please anyone—after all, it was just him here; what else could he do?
But the customers had different thoughts.
"Hey, is it just you now? Why does it take so long to get a drink?" one man impatiently tapped on the bar, clearly annoyed.
"Yeah, did the boss run away? Or is this place going under?" another chimed in with complaints.
Marco glanced up at them, continuing to wipe down freshly washed glasses at a leisurely pace without any intention of speeding up. He couldn't be bothered to explain anything; there was no need—complaints or not, these people would have to wait patiently because this was their only refuge.
Finally, someone shrugged and sighed dramatically, "Forget it; everything in this city is falling apart anyway. What more can we expect?"
As soon as those words were spoken, the conversation quickly shifted toward the current state of the city.
"Did you hear about Brother Jie's death a few days ago? He was electrocuted and left hanging on a power pole. The image... damn, it sends chills down my spine just thinking about it."
"How could we not hear? This city is turning into a slaughterhouse. The government doesn’t care, the police aren’t solving cases, and the gangs are running wild. Everyone's just waiting to see when this place will finally collapse."
"Hah, collapse? No, this place won’t collapse; it will burn to the ground and then be reborn." A man in a dark leather jacket sneered, speaking softly, "We are currently living in the calm before a great fire... and someone has already ignited the spark."
Marco listened without speaking, continuing to fiddle with the bottles on the bar, but he didn’t miss a single word.
"You’re talking about Carter, right?" someone lowered their voice, yet there was an undercurrent of excitement in their tone. "City's Angel of Death... when was there a day in the news lately without his name?"
"Exactly... the government is useless, the police are ineffective, and the gangs are rotten. And him? He says nothing but changes this city with guns and knives... don’t you find it ironic? People are starting to admire a vigilante instead of those in power."
"But can he really change anything? Or is he just making this place die faster?"
A moment of silence followed, then someone scoffed, "Regardless, he’s still more of a man than those politicians spouting nonsense, right? At least his hands aren’t empty; his words are spoken in blood."
The bar fell silent for a moment again, with only the soft clinking of glasses echoing in the air. Marco finally lifted his head and glanced at the group sitting at the bar, wondering to himself: Is there really hope for this city?
He picked up a freshly made drink and casually pushed it toward the nearest customer, then chuckled self-deprecatingly.
"Damn it all, no matter what the future holds... someone still has to pour drinks tonight, right?"
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