It was the kind of bar you walk into sober… and wake up hungover on a Sunday morning wondering what the hell happened to your dignity.
Inside was quiet.
Too quiet.
Not tense—just still. Like the room itself was holding its breath.
People weren't drinking. They were watching. But not each other.
They were watching him.
An old man at the end of the bar. Leather coat. Wrinkled hands. Calm as hell. Sitting with a full glass of something strong like he owned the silence itself.
Everyone gave him space.
Nobody sat beside him.
Except me.
I didn't know who he was. I was new in town—new to this whole scene. And the chair next to him was empty.
So I took it.
Bartender didn't say a word. Just stared.
The whole damn room stared.
Then I heard chairs shift.
Six men stood up from the back booth—tall, tattooed, mean.
One of them said, "Kid… you don't want to do that."
I looked around. "Do what?"
Three of them moved first—hands on his shoulder, ready to drag him out.
They didn't get the chance.
Next thing I knew—
Three were on the floor.
Not a struggle. Not a scuffle. Just… down. Groaning, breathless, folded up like bad origami.
The other three froze mid-step.
The old man—still seated—turned his head slightly.
Just enough to look at them from the corner of his eye.
They sat.
Quick.
Dragged the bodies off the floor like dogs cleaning up their own mess.
The old man didn't say a word. Just took a sip from his glass.
Then stood up.
And walked out the front door.
The second he left—everything came back to life.
Music. Talking. Laughter. Noise everywhere, like someone hit "play" on a frozen scene.
I turned to the bartender, still stunned.
"Who the hell was that old head?"
He didn't even look at me.
Just muttered:
"Don't mess with fire if you ain't ready to burn."
Sunday morning.
Dave's hangover wasn't the worst part.
It was the feeling—like something unfinished was gnawing at him. Too much left unsaid. Too many empty glasses and no answers.
He wandered to the office bulletin where locals posted bounties, odd jobs, and "don't ask" kind of tasks.
Most of them were scratched out—handled or abandoned.
But one stayed pinned. Dusty. Torn.
Nobody wanted it. Too weird. Too quiet.
It mentioned strange sightings. Whispers. Disappearances on the far side of town.
People said it wasn't worth the risk.
Even the Old Wolf hadn't touched it.
That made Dave curious.
He took the job.
Tracked what little clues he had:
A path that vanished halfway through the woods A house way too rich for this dying town, with vines on the porch and wind chimes that never moved Locals who wouldn't talk, just stared and said, "Don't follow it past the fence."
Dave laughed to himself.
"Didn't know folks in this creepy town could afford life insurance."
But jokes aside, the trail went cold—too clean, too empty.
He stared at the edge of a forest trail everyone else avoided. A line.
Past it? The side of town where ghosts lived.
At least, that's what they said.
"I didn't come this far to stop at legends."
He crossed the line.
That's when it all flipped.
A crack. A snap.
Bottle to the back of the head.
He went down.
The last thing he saw was the three guys from the bar standing over him.
"You humiliated us," one snarled.
Dave blinked, confused. "I didn't do nothi—"
Darkness.
Hours later.
He woke up tied.
Back sore. Head throbbing.
Surrounded by firelight. Twelve men in a half-circle. Three familiar faces.
One of them raised a knife.
"You should've stayed outta this, fool."
Dave tried to move. Couldn't.
The blade came down.
Then came the cold.
The kind of cold that crawls down your back and into your soul.
The door creaked.
Bootsteps.
Then the voice.
"I knew it was you."
"I didn't want to get involved. But if you're killing a man in my town, I have to step in."
The men laughed.
"This ain't your town anymore, old man. You crossed the line."
"You've got no power here."
The Old Wolf stepped forward.
"Good. Then I don't have to hold back."