Between the Lines

Chapter 1: The Quiet Before the Storm

Zayn Malik wiped his hands on a rag, the soft hum of the bar's dim lights providing a rhythm to the chaos around him. It was a typical Thursday night at The Drunken Sparrow, the kind of bar where the music was too loud, and the conversations too drunk. He preferred it this way—the noise was a mask, an excuse to remain distant, hidden in plain sight. His tattoos, a mix of dark lines and faded symbols, peeked out from under his black shirt, but no one ever asked about them. He was just the bartender, a figure of quiet mystery.

Tonight, like every night, he was focused on his work—mixing drinks with the precision of someone who'd long since mastered his craft. The subtle art of balance, flavor, and presentation was the only thing that grounded him. A flash of color—red, gold, green—every shake, every stir, a perfect creation. He didn't speak much to the customers. What was there to say? He wasn't here to make friends. He wasn't here to be anything but the guy behind the counter. And that suited him just fine.

Then, the memory hit him.

He froze for a second, the glass in his hand heavy, almost slipping from his grasp. His mind wasn't at the bar anymore. He was 10 years old, sitting on the cold wooden floor of his small room in Bradford, the muffled sound of shouting rising from downstairs. He could hear his stepfather's voice—loud, angry, violent—threatening to break the silence of their home yet again. Zayn pulled the hood of his hoodie over his head, hoping the fabric would drown out the noise, but it never did. His mother's voice trembled through the thin walls, and his heart sank as he knew exactly what was happening.

The sharp sting of his stepfather's words rang in his ears, "You'll never be anything, boy."

Zayn shook his head, forcing himself back into the present, but the taste of bitter whisky lingered in his mouth, and the cold chill of his childhood still clung to his bones. He gripped the shaker tightly, trying to shake off the ache in his chest. He had long since learned to bury that pain deep, but sometimes, it clawed its way back to the surface.

He breathed out slowly, focusing on the task at hand. The bar was crowded tonight, and he needed to shake off the ghosts of the past before they ruined his night. But it was getting harder. Lately, every drink he mixed seemed to stir up a memory—an echo of the boy he used to be, the boy who couldn't escape his father's wrath.

Zayn grabbed a new glass and a bottle of gin, his mind still foggy from the flashback. His hand moved almost instinctively, a dance of familiarity. But tonight, he wasn't just making a simple gin and tonic. No, tonight, he was going to make something different—something that matched the turbulent, painful waves of his thoughts.

With quick, precise movements, Zayn poured gin, then a splash of elderflower liqueur. He added a hint of lime, not too much, just enough to add a sharp twist, then a dash of bitters. He finished it off with a few sprigs of rosemary. A drink to match the darkness of his thoughts, the quiet anger that simmered beneath his calm exterior. He called it The Ghost of Bradford.

The drink shimmered under the bar lights, dark and mysterious, a perfect representation of his own self—beautiful, but not without its edge.

"One Ghost of Bradford," Zayn called out to the room, his voice a low hum that barely rose above the music. He slid the glass across the counter to a regular who grinned at him.

"What's with the name?" the guy asked, raising an eyebrow.

Zayn's lips quirked into a half-smile, but there was no humor in it. "Tastes like home," he said, the words bitter on his tongue, though he didn't elaborate further.

The regular chuckled, clearly not caring to push for more. Zayn had always been this way—quiet, sharp, with just enough humor to keep people at arm's length. He didn't care for small talk, but tonight, the distance between him and the rest of the world seemed thicker, more suffocating. Maybe it was the memories that had surfaced, or maybe it was the fact that he'd been mixing drinks for far too long without letting himself feel anything.

The bar was alive with noise and laughter, but Zayn's thoughts were elsewhere. He slid into the familiar rhythm of his job, each drink another distraction from the thoughts of a childhood he'd long buried. He needed to focus. He needed to keep moving. Because if he stopped, even for a second, those ghosts—those memories—would swallow him whole.

And he wasn't ready to face them. Not yet.