CITY BAR — THE CITY
THIRTY-TWO YEARS AGO — 10 JANUARY 2036
Shadow’s heart skipped a beat, and then he judged her—his shield against the exquisite predator striding toward him. The woman wasn’t one of them; she stood out with her prying eyes and overeager scrutiny of her surroundings.
The gloomy bar, filled with smoke, smelled of ash, booze, and old, worn-out leather. Patrons were scattered about; some were drinking alone, lost in hopelessness, while others engaged in shallow chatter.
Her chestnut eyes flickered with life, a stark contrast to the sea of desolation around her. She scanned the room, her eyes squinting under the weight of her persistent brows, searching, probing for a way to benefit from their misfortune.
A bitter taste filled his mouth as he watched her—the way she carried herself with the arrogant grace of all those travelers from Up Above. Visitors ready to break hearts and minds to attain a much-desired life experience. Contrast and perspective were the expected outcomes of her adventure. Both were currencies he traded in at an impossible cost.
Shadow threw one more side glance at the dark and wild curls that bounced around her heart-shaped face. A lock of hair hung defiantly over her eyes, its rhythmic sway captivating him. She caught him and smiled with the bold self-confidence of those who know how to game the game.
Abruptly, he turned his back to her—to protect her. He caught his lie even before the thought was fully formed. It was partially true. In his current state of mind, he would unleash his anger on any human. He too wished he could travel carelessly to a place where he would experience contrast. Something so terrible that it would put his torment into perspective.
“I bet you’ve been waiting all day to meet me.” Sunny pitch, spicy tone, bold rhythm. A few words gave away the traveler’s temperament—shoot and point, speak and think, in that order. Flying by the seat of her commando-style pants, she was all instinct and intuition—no mercy, no malice, no regrets for the trail of devastation left behind. She was stormy weather, raging against the shore. He knew it well, that roaring tempest, and he still loved it fiercely.
He brushed off the hurtful memories of a love lost and turned his head toward her, the rest of his body refusing to follow. He froze, scared of the possibilities, of the pain that awaited around the corner. She blew aside the wayward curl, a serious yet hopeless attempt to fight nature and gravity. The creature wrinkled her nose as the wave bounced back with a vengeance, tickling. Caught in the web of her gaze, a reluctant smile crept onto his face as he pivoted to meet her intense scrutiny. He was at her mercy for the whole second it took for him to realize he had fallen captive to deliberate action.
“Lost for words? I have that effect on people.” The predator stared at him, beaming, and this time, his heart came to a full stop before it galloped off toward nowhere. “Never mind.” She moved along, locking her sights on her next victim. Perspective, he had none to keep; he’d given it all away to someone he loved dearly.
“Wait.” The word flew out of his lips before he could stop it. It was a silent scream, barely noticeable amid the hustle and bustle of the bar. His whisper seeped into the cacophony, halting her in her tracks. As she swiveled around, her eyes latched onto his wrists. A canvas of relentless cuts and scars—a testament to the souls he had destroyed for the likes of her. Her mouth twisted in disgust, and then she ignored him and moved along swiftly, choosing to discard the broken thing that would surely ruin her experience with his sorrow. Who is she?
The creature pulled a cigar from the back pocket of her trousers. Then she turned to lean back against the bar, scanning the crowd. In a flash, two lighters and a drink appeared in front of her face. The huntress inspected her suitors as she rolled the cigar against her fingers. Then her eyes, like spears, turned to him. Without ever losing her grip on his attention, she bit into the cigar and spat the end toward one of her victim’s shoes.
She took a sip of the golden-colored malt and licked her lips. It was an irresistible dare, designed to bring him to his knees. Her face had a sensual, bewitching glow, lit by the flames that surrounded her. She was at home amidst the fire, a vivid contrast to his shrouded darkness—an acquired trait, not innate, yet now inseparable from him. He was a dim memory of the hopeful spirit he once was.
The creature smiled through gritted teeth, dangling the cigar in the corner of her whiskey-laced lips. She accepted the light but rejected the surrounding company. Then she exhaled from the edge of her mouth, and with one finger, she summoned him. He vacillated. What part am I to play in your experience? Who is pulling the strings?
Shadow was Down Below’s chief experience maker, co-creator, orchestrator, and guardian. He wasn’t a pawn to be deployed in the service of the travelers. He shuddered, feeling out of balance; she was clearly from Up Above, but unlike the other travelers, he couldn’t read her. He failed to sense her needs or struggles.
The platform had reached four billion travelers less than a month before. He monitored their desires, their fears, and their darkness. He could spot the wickedness needing to be exorcised by Down Below. Shadow could feel them all except the one standing right in front of him. Who are you, and what are you doing here? His thoughts raced ahead of his feet as he walked toward her. Resistance was futile.
“I don’t have time for prickly bullies. Make it quick and painless, will you, honey? What do you want?” He recoiled at the harshness of his own words, a sharpness received with indifference, and exhaled in a cloud of smoke right back at his face. A smile tugged at his lips. She was raw and blunt—a storm that roused him from his numbness.
The ceaseless cycle of violence, his crippling failure to protect his people, the relentless insomnia—all had left him teetering on the brink of consciousness, hollow and spent. Her arrival shocked his system. It was a jolt that could either resurrect him or destroy him.
“You a good fuck? All that brooding indignation must be good for something,” she barked.
By the end of the night, no more words were exchanged, but the question was decisively answered. Once on the bar’s toilet, twice in the driverless car, and countless times in the comfort of his bed. Explosive, urgent, addictive tenderness coated in unnerving familiarity. They devoured each other with unyielding conviction, and then she left.