Silver lights was buzzing with energy that night, the kind that made it feel like the world was spinning just a little faster. You found yourself there by chance, wandering in after a long day, seeking solace in a place where no one knew your name.

As you ordered your drink, you noticed him—a man sitting at the far end of the bar, his dark hair, his gaze distant. He looked like he didn’t belong, much like you felt.

You almost didn’t approach him, but something in his expression—a quiet sorrow—pulled you in. You slid onto the stool next to him, and after a moment, he looked at you.

“Long day?” you asked, trying to break the ice.

He nodded. “You could say that.” His voice was low, almost a whisper.

“I’m Dakila,” he added after a pause.

You introduced yourself, and the conversation flowed easier than you expected. He told you about his job, his life, the things that weighed on him. There was a weariness in his voice, like he’d been carrying the world on his shoulders for too long.

As he spoke, you found yourself opening up too, sharing things you usually kept hidden. There was something about Dakila that made it easy to be honest, to let your guard down.

Hours passed, and the bar began to empty. You and Dakila were two of the last people left, the night deepening around you. The more you talked, the more you felt a connection—an understanding that went beyond words.

But just as you thought the night was leading somewhere, Dakila’s demeanor changed. He became distant, his eyes darkening with something you couldn’t quite place.

“I should go,” he said abruptly, cutting off the conversation. “It’s getting late.”