A shadow on the sun

Chapter 7

The bar Cain frequented was dimly lit, with peeling wallpaper and worn wooden floors that had seen better days. It was tucked away in a forgotten corner of the city, a place where the regulars were few and the atmosphere was always heavy with silence. The bar had a tired, aged look, much like its patrons—people who had nowhere else to be. Only a few souls sat at scattered tables, their eyes downcast, lost in their drinks or thoughts. The bartender, a man with gray hair that seemed too youthful for his lean, muscular frame, stood behind the counter. His body hinted at a past life—maybe a raider, maybe something worse.

As Cain walked in, the bartender glanced at him and, without asking, poured a glass of whiskey, sliding it across the bar.

"On the house," the man said, his voice as smooth as ever.

Cain wasn't surprised. This was their routine. He raised the glass in silent acknowledgment, then took a long, slow sip, letting the alcohol burn away the edges of his thoughts. He didn't come here for the whiskey; he came here to escape the chaos in his head.

Almost feels normal. Almost...

He was lost in thought when the door creaked open. A young woman walked in, trying her best to blend in, but her attempt was conspicuous. She wore a cap and a hood, obscuring her face, her clothing plain yet deliberate. Cain's eyes flicked to her hands.

Soft hands. Nails freshly cut. But no signs of wear. She healed her entire hands and the nails returned to this stat... recently, too. Raider. Strong one at that. Practiced today or was on a raid.

She ordered a drink and sat beside him, her body language stiff. She looked at him, her gaze lingering on the exposed bones of his knuckles before she quickly turned away. Cain was used to that look—people always stared for a moment too long before pretending not to.

"Umm... excuse me," she said softly, her voice strangely familiar but just out of reach for Cain's memory. "What happened to your hand?"

Cain blinked and raised his knuckles, glancing at them as if they belonged to someone else. "My hand?"

"Your knuckles... they're bare. Was it some kind of acid or...?"

Cain grunted. "When you hit something enough, it wears down."

She tilted her head slightly. "So... your fists are worn down?"

"Yeah."

"That sounds painful."

Cain felt a flicker of annoyance. He didn't need pity, especially from some stranger. "I'm still alive, aren't I?"

"Still—"

"I don't need your pity, lady."

A beat of silence hung between them before she lowered her head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound condescending."

Another pause followed. The bar's silence swallowed them up, both unsure whether to speak again or just let the moment fade.

"So... why are you here?" she asked, her voice trying to be casual.

Cain shot her a sharp look. "Are you really that bored?"

"No, I just... I'm curious."

"Can't a man drink without a reason?"

She looked him up and down, her eyes catching every detail. "Your clothes are banged up. Your shoes, too—the soles are worn thin. You look... poor. You must be celebrating something."

Cain's jaw tightened. This girl really doesn't know when to shut up.

"Sometimes," Cain said, his voice darkening, "it's good to keep your thoughts to yourself."