The reflection in the bathroom mirror didn't look like a twenty-two-year-old. It looked like a ghost draped in a black trench coat.
Andrew adjusted his collar, staring at the man staring back. The mustache he'd grown to add some maturity to his face now just seemed to accent the exhaustion under his eyes. He washed his hands, the cold water doing little to shock him back to life. The fluorescent lights of the bar bathroom hummed, a headache-inducing sound that matched the buzzing in his brain.
"Twenty-two," he whispered to the tiles. "I'm twenty-two and I feel like I'm eighty."
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Ten years ago, Andrew wasn't a Data Entry Specialist Level 2. He was *Captain Andrew*, survivor of the Backyard Jungle. He was the kid who built shelters out of fallen branches and stole his dad's lighter to practice starting fires in the rain (until he got caught). He devoured books on wilderness survival, tactical knots, and edible flora. He dreamed of mountains that scraped the stratosphere and forests where no GPS could find a signal.
He wanted to get lost. He wanted to survive.
But then came high school. Then college. Then the bills. The "silly dreams" were packed away in cardboard boxes in his parents' attic, replaced by spreadsheets, quarterly reports, and the dull, buzzing fluorescent lights of the office.
The door to the bar bathroom swung open, letting in the muffled thump of bass and the clinking of glass. Andrew sighed, dried his hands on his coat, and stepped back out into *The Neon Tap*.
He slumped onto a stool at the far end of the bar, loosening his tie. "Whisky. Neat."
The bartender slid a glass over without a word. Andrew swirled the amber liquid, watching the light fracture through it. He took a sip, the burn welcome against the numbness of his day.
*Is this it?* he thought, closing his eyes. *Work, drink, sleep, repeat until I die?*
"The coordinates... they don't match the topography..."
The voice was a harsh rasp, muttering just to his left.
Andrew opened one eye. Seated two stools away was a man who looked like he'd been chewed up and spat out by a hurricane. His clothes were tattered canvas, stained with mud that looked fresh despite the dry city weather outside. A thick scar ran from his temple to his jaw, pulling his lip into a permanent, jagged sneer.
The stranger was hunched over a glass of whisky, but he wasn't drinking. He was staring intensely at a crumpled, yellowed piece of paper on the bar top, tracing invisible lines with a trembling finger.
"It shifts," the stranger muttered, loud enough for Andrew to hear but clearly talking to himself. "The north face... it shifts when the moon is dead. The entrance isn't static."
Andrew turned back to his drink, forcing himself to ignore the crazy guy. It was a city bar; crazy guys were part of the furniture. He didn't have the energy for this. He just wanted to finish his drink, go home to his empty apartment, and try to convince himself that tomorrow would be better.
*God, I used to want to meet people like him,* Andrew thought bitterly. *I used to want stories. Now I just want silence.*
He downed the rest of his whisky, the heat settling in his stomach. He signaled for the check, ready to leave. Ready to go back to the safety of his boring, suffocating life.
But then the stranger slammed his hand down on the bar. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.
"I know you're listening!" the man hissed, not turning his head, his hand gripping the mysterious paper until his knuckles turned white.
Andrew froze, his credit card hovering halfway to the counter. The air in the bar suddenly felt very cold.
To be continued