The rain was relentless, a constant rhythm against the cracked pavement of Ashwick's old district. Kieran pulled his hood tighter as he navigated the slick streets, the glow of dim streetlights reflected in shallow puddles. The cold bit at his fingertips, and he flexed them absently, as if shaking off the lingering chill of another restless night.

When he reached The Hollow Lantern, its familiar façade greeted him like an old, begrudging friend. The weathered wooden sign creaked on rusted chains above the door, and the faint hum of jazz seeped through the cracks. Kieran paused, glancing up at the swirling mist that clung to the city skyline before pulling open the heavy door.

Inside, the warmth hit him instantly—along with the heady mix of old whiskey, worn leather, and faint smoke that always lingered in the air. The low murmur of voices and the clinking of glasses created a backdrop of noise that was strangely comforting.

“Late again, Vale.” Elliot, the bar's owner, didn’t look up from where he was restocking the shelves behind the bar. His gruff voice carried no malice, just the usual blend of sarcasm and resignation.

“Traffic,” Kieran replied, shrugging off his jacket and slinging it over a hook. The corner of his mouth twitched in a faint smirk. “The kind that moves at 3 miles an hour in the rain.”

“Uh-huh,” Elliot muttered, shaking his head. “Piano’s out of tune again. Fix it before the night crowd shows up.”

Kieran gave a mock salute, weaving his way through the room. The hollowed-out stage in the corner seemed to beckon him, the old piano sitting under a lonely spotlight. He ran a hand over the worn keys, feeling the smooth, familiar weight of them beneath his fingertips.

It was still early. The crowd was thin, and for now, the bar was quiet—just the way he liked it. But in a few hours, the place would come alive, and with it, the stories, the noise, and maybe, if the night was kind, the fleeting sense of purpose Kieran always chased but never quite caught.