6d
The bartender had seen plenty in his years behind the bar at The Last Call, though most of it wasn’t worth remembering. Fights over nothing, drinks poured for men and women who didn’t have the money to pay, and the slow shuffle of lives too tired to keep moving. But that night—that night—was different.
Hades was there, as always, hunched over the bar like a relic too heavy to lift. He nursed his bourbon neat, the amber liquid catching what little light the failing neon signs could muster. The November wind pushed through the swinging doors, bringing with it a young woman—a stranger. The bartender’s first thought was how out of place she looked.
Her hair was a mess, teased into wild peaks and angles that caught the dim glow, casting shadows that danced like specters. She wore a long black duster, the material shimmering faintly with each step. And her skin—pale and flawless, like porcelain, like alabaster. It wasn’t natural, not in a place like this.
The bartender poured her a drink, though she didn’t ask for one. She didn’t sit, didn’t linger near the bar. Instead, she moved to Hades, her steps light but deliberate, as if she’d walked this path a thousand times before.
She wrapped her arms around the man—a mountain long eroded by time—and whispered something the bartender couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, Hades didn’t pull away. He sat there, still as stone, his hand tightening around the glass before setting it down, the faint clink carrying more weight than it should have.
The bartender watched as she leaned in closer, her black duster sweeping the sticky floor, the ankh around her neck swaying gently.
“It’s time to go,” she said, her voice soft but unyielding.
The bartender couldn’t remember Hades ever looking small before, but in that moment, he did. He sat there for what felt like an eternity, his gaze fixed on the drink he’d barely touched. Finally, he let out a low chuckle—not bitter, not amused, just resigned.
“Yeah,” he said. “I figured as much.”
He stood, slow and deliberate, his frame creaking like old wood. He adjusted his hat, pulling the brim low, and for a moment, he looked almost like the man he once must have been—a king of feral dogs, a ruler of shadows. But the bartender knew better. He knew Hades wasn’t a king anymore.
“Where we’re goin’,” the woman said, “your glass will never empty.”
Hades let out another chuckle, quieter this time. He nodded, as though that was all he needed to hear, and without another word, he followed her to the door.
The bartender didn’t stop them. What could he have said? What could he have done? He only watched as they stepped out into the cold November night, the wind pulling the doors closed behind them with a hollow thud.
He stood there, staring at the empty stool where Hades had sat every night for decades. The bourbon glass remained on the bar, untouched, the faint warmth of his hand still lingering on its surface. The bartender reached out to take it, but stopped.
Instead, he left it there.
The next morning, when he came to open the bar, the glass was gone.
Hades was there, as always, hunched over the bar like a relic too heavy to lift. He nursed his bourbon neat, the amber liquid catching what little light the failing neon signs could muster. The November wind pushed through the swinging doors, bringing with it a young woman—a stranger. The bartender’s first thought was how out of place she looked.
Her hair was a mess, teased into wild peaks and angles that caught the dim glow, casting shadows that danced like specters. She wore a long black duster, the material shimmering faintly with each step. And her skin—pale and flawless, like porcelain, like alabaster. It wasn’t natural, not in a place like this.
The bartender poured her a drink, though she didn’t ask for one. She didn’t sit, didn’t linger near the bar. Instead, she moved to Hades, her steps light but deliberate, as if she’d walked this path a thousand times before.
She wrapped her arms around the man—a mountain long eroded by time—and whispered something the bartender couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, Hades didn’t pull away. He sat there, still as stone, his hand tightening around the glass before setting it down, the faint clink carrying more weight than it should have.
The bartender watched as she leaned in closer, her black duster sweeping the sticky floor, the ankh around her neck swaying gently.
“It’s time to go,” she said, her voice soft but unyielding.
The bartender couldn’t remember Hades ever looking small before, but in that moment, he did. He sat there for what felt like an eternity, his gaze fixed on the drink he’d barely touched. Finally, he let out a low chuckle—not bitter, not amused, just resigned.
“Yeah,” he said. “I figured as much.”
He stood, slow and deliberate, his frame creaking like old wood. He adjusted his hat, pulling the brim low, and for a moment, he looked almost like the man he once must have been—a king of feral dogs, a ruler of shadows. But the bartender knew better. He knew Hades wasn’t a king anymore.
“Where we’re goin’,” the woman said, “your glass will never empty.”
Hades let out another chuckle, quieter this time. He nodded, as though that was all he needed to hear, and without another word, he followed her to the door.
The bartender didn’t stop them. What could he have said? What could he have done? He only watched as they stepped out into the cold November night, the wind pulling the doors closed behind them with a hollow thud.
He stood there, staring at the empty stool where Hades had sat every night for decades. The bourbon glass remained on the bar, untouched, the faint warmth of his hand still lingering on its surface. The bartender reached out to take it, but stopped.
Instead, he left it there.
The next morning, when he came to open the bar, the glass was gone.
