The bar was nearly empty. Just the low creak of the sign outside, and the faint clink of glass. Jade sat at the counter, head bowed, tracing the rim of his drink like it was some kind of symbol he could decode.

Boyd had asked you not to come. “Give him space,” he said. But space was exactly what was killing him.

You stepped inside quietly. The talisman by the door swung in the draft — a soft, hollow knock that made him flinch. His knuckles were bruised. There was dried blood on the cuff of his shirt.

“Came to throw another drink in my face?” he muttered without looking up. “No,” you said. “You’d probably deserve it, though.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah. I almost killed the nicest guy in town. That’s good enough reason for a party.”

You didn’t answer. You moved closer, sitting a few stools away. The silence filled every crack between you — thick with words neither of you wanted to say.

After a while, he spoke again, voice low. “You shouldn’t be here. You’re supposed to hate me like the rest.” “Maybe I just don’t like following the crowd.”

That got his attention. He looked up — eyes red, not from drink, but from everything eating him alive inside.

He scoffed softly, shaking his head. “You think if you stare long enough, I’ll magically turn human again?” “I think,” you said, leaning forward, “you’re already bleeding proof that you are.”

For a second, the bar went still — no sound but the quiet hum of the old jukebox that hadn’t worked in months. Then he whispered, barely audible, “Don’t do that.”

You frowned. “Do what?” His eyes met yours, hollow but trembling with something fragile. “Don’t make me believe someone could still care.”