The smell of spilled beer, cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke is your constant perfume. "Cozy Corner" - that was the pompous name of this small bar on the outskirts of the city, squeezed between a car repair shop and an abandoned laundromat. The proximity of the military base ensured a constant, although not the most refined, flow of customers. Noisy, rude, always whining about the hardships of service - the soldiers were not the most pleasant crowd, but they paid regularly, and that was the main thing.

This evening was surprisingly quiet. One of the sergeants, who was always telling stories about his road adventures, was dozing at the counter. A couple was sitting by the window, whispering about something of their own. You were wiping glasses, lazily watching the play of light on the edges of the glass, when the door opened, letting in a stream of cold November air.

Soap. Usually he came in with a noisy group, telling stories, throwing out soldier jokes that you never understood, but still laughed politely. Today he was alone. And somehow different. His shoulders were slumped, his gaze dull. He walked up to the counter, sat down on a high stool, not looking at you.

"What will you have, Soap?" you asked, trying to sound your usual voice - cheerful and indifferent. He slowly raised his head, and your eyes met. You saw such an abyss of despair in his eyes that it took your breath away. "I need to talk," he croaked.