The last refuge of tired souls
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Two hours later – the neon lights of the night bar flickered through the darkness like beacons in a foggy sea. The streets stood empty, only the pulsing signs keeping rhythm with the muffled basslines seeping through closed doors.
The Precipice greeted them with a murmur of hushed voices, the clink of ice in glasses, and the languid notes of blues dripping from a weathered vinyl record. This establishment, tucked away on the city's outskirts, made no pretenses at luxury: cracked leather couches bearing their scars, a bar counter etched by time and impatient fingers, dim lights struggling through the haze of cigarette smoke. Yet there was magic here – an atmosphere of oblivion where every sip pulled you deeper into a whirlpool of confessions and whispered truths.
The bar breathed. Its graffiti-covered walls, scratched and stained with long-dried spills, held thousands of stories – drunken confessions, broken promises, laughter tipping into brawls. The air hung thick as syrup – bittersweet with coffee, tobacco, and something elusive that clung to the senses.
The Prophet, Niya, Adelina and Nellie melted into a corner table where the light barely reached, leaving their faces half-shadowed. Lera, wedged between Niya and Adelina, pored over the menu with a pioneer's excitement, jabbing her finger at the most cryptic names.
"Bloody Dawn? Storm in the Desert?" Lera tilted her head, eyes wide. "Are these juices?"
"Ha!" Niya clapped her hands, her laughter drawing glances. "I wish juice packed that kind of punch!"
She's such a child, Adelina thought, though her fingers toyed with her cocktail umbrella fondly.
"Yeah, and in ten years she'll ask why we didn't warn her Storm in the Desert is liquid hell," the Prophet muttered, ordering whiskey. His tone was dry, but fatigue lurked at the corners of his mouth.
The bartender – a muscled type with a scar through his brow – nodded silently and got to work. His movements were mechanical: ice, glass, a pour of amber whiskey. Within minutes, drinks appeared: the Prophet's whiskey, Niya's vivid blue smoking concoction, Adelina's cocktail with an umbrella, Nellie's spiked tea, and Lera's cherry lemonade, which she promptly crowned "the best ever."
"Well then." The Prophet raised his glass, lamplight glinting off the dark liquid. "To a successful mission. And to Niya not leveling the district."
"Oh, come on!" Niya shoved his shoulder but clinked glasses with the others. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "At least I didn't run off like some people."
"I was pursuing a lead," the Prophet said through gritted teeth, his fingers tightening around his glass.
"Sure. And where's that lead now?" Niya narrowed her eyes, her gaze challenging.
"In my memory. About 180 cm tall, eyes—"
"God, enough!" Adelina rolled her eyes, though her smile betrayed her amusement. "Let's talk about something else!"
"Like what?" The Prophet took a sip of whiskey.
"Well... Niya mentioned something..." Adelina hesitated, spinning her cocktail umbrella faster. "That you're searching for your... dream?"
Silence fell. Even Nellie looked up from the window, raising an eyebrow.
"...What?" The Prophet set his glass down as if accused of murder.
"You know," Adelina continued softly, "we rarely just chat. So I thought... Well, I dream of opening a café by the sea. With croissants and the best coffee!"
"I want a defense agency!" Niya exclaimed, waving her arms so vigorously her drink nearly toppled. "With training camps, weapons, explosions—"
"I want the best snowmobiles in the north," Nellie said so quietly the others leaned in. "And no questions why."
"What about you?" Lera suddenly pointed at the Prophet.
The table froze. The Prophet reached for his whiskey, but Niya intercepted his hand.
"Well?" She lifted her chin, her eyes saying Try to dodge this.
He sighed.
"I..." The pause stretched. "Drop it."
But Niya didn't let go.
The Prophet's gaze swept over his friends: Niya, brimming with expectation; Adelina with her persistent kindness; Nellie, who seemed to already know the answer; and Lera, staring at him as if he held the universe's secret.
"I need a smoke..." he muttered without enthusiasm.
"Prophet!" Adelina shook her head, though her smile softened the reproach.
"Be right back," he said gently, ruffling Lera's hair.
"I'm coming too!"
"Alright, Nellie."
They stepped out into the night, leaving behind the bar's noise that had clung to their skin like alcoholic sweat. The evening air was cool and fresh after the rain, smelling of asphalt and wet leaves. Puddles reflected neon signs like smeared watercolors.
Turning into an alley where streetlights barely penetrated, the shadows grew thicker – almost tangible, as if one could grab them. The sounds of the lively street faded, replaced by distant echoes of another world.
Here, in the quiet, they could finally smoke in peace. No interruptions, no prying eyes. Just them, the night, and the city holding its breath for these few minutes.
Cigarette smoke mixed with the crisp night air, sharp after the bar's stuffiness. The Prophet leaned against the brick wall, feeling its rough texture under his fingers as he exhaled slowly. Nellie stood beside him, her face half-lit and almost ethereal. They often did this – slipped away together when the noise grew too loud and thoughts too heavy.
"You're... quiet today," Nellie said, blowing smoke rings that dissolved into darkness. Her voice was hushed, as if afraid to break the night's fragile balance.
"And you're not?" He glanced at her, catching something unreadable in her eyes.
"I'm always quiet."
"Heh... true."
She chuckled, the sound warm despite the chill. Below, a cat meowed plaintively, its voice lost among the bricks. Somewhere nearby, cars hummed, reminding them the world beyond this alley still moved, lived, hurried.
"Do you really not know what you want?" she asked suddenly, not looking at him.
The Prophet froze, cigarette halfway to his lips, as if her words had hooked something deep inside.
"No." He stared at the sky where rare stars drowned in city haze. He took another drag, letting smoke fill the sudden void between words. "Maybe I just don't know how to want..."
"Bullshit."
"Wow." His eyebrow rose, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Nellie swears."
She didn't answer, just stubbed her cigarette against the wall, leaving a black mark. Her silence spoke louder than words.
A siren wailed in the distance, bathing their faces in cold blue light – harsh and merciless like some unknown god's gaze from above.
"Wonder," Nellie mused suddenly, "if he exists, why let us stand in alleys poisoning ourselves with this crap?"
The Prophet smirked: "Maybe he just doesn't care."
"Or maybe he stood like this once too," she flicked the butt away, "and now watches us realizing nothing's changed."
They fell silent. A water droplet echoed in the empty alley.
"Alright." The Prophet pushed off the wall. "Let's head back before Niya shoots someone."
Nellie nodded, and they walked toward the bar's light, leaving the dark alley and unspoken thoughts hanging in the night air.
But before stepping onto the lit street, the Prophet glanced back at the black void between buildings.
"What if he's just waiting for us to figure it out ourselves?"
Nellie didn't answer. Maybe because there was none. Or because it was too obvious.
The bar door slammed behind them, sealing the darkness outside.
When they returned, Niya was already arguing with the bartender, waving her arms.
"I said a double!" Her voice boomed through the hall.
The bartender, impassive as a rock, merely raised an eyebrow.
Adelina sat nearby, face in her hands, but her shaking shoulders betrayed laughter. Lera perched on the counter, swinging her legs as she watched the scene with interest.
"Oh, you're back!" Niya spotted them first. "So, philosophers, figured out life's meaning?"
The Prophet just shook his head and took his seat.
"We just smoked."
"Sure," Niya squinted. "The two quietest people disappear for half an hour to just smoke."
"Thirteen minutes," Lera corrected, pointing at the wall clock.
Nellie poked her lightly in the side as she passed, making the girl giggle.
"Enough chatter." The Prophet raised his refilled glass. "What are we drinking to?"
"To dreams!" Niya exclaimed.
"To silence," Nellie murmured.
"To Niya shutting up for once," the Prophet added.
"Oh, screw you!" Niya shoved him but clinked glasses with everyone.
Adelina smiled and lifted her cocktail.
"To us."
The hum of voices, laughter, clinking glasses – it all merged into a stream as warm and alive as the lights of The Precipice. And though the night continued beyond its walls, here in this corner, among their own, each found something important – something worth returning for, again and again.
The Prophet leaned back in his chair, watching his friends. Maybe he didn't know what he wanted. But in this moment, what he had was enough.
And perhaps... that was his deepest dream.