A sudden night wind swept through the darkness, carrying with it a chill that seeped deep into Michael's bones. He shuddered violently, his nearly naked body breaking out in goosebumps. As his bleary mind struggled to catch up, his eyes widened in disbelief. Nothing around him made sense.
Why? How did I end up here?
Just moments ago—or what felt like moments—he had been stumbling back to his rented room after a long, draining night. The client had demanded celebration, and Michael, desperate to secure the deal, had obliged. There had been a seafood feast, then a karaoke lounge, and too many rounds of drinks. He'd lost count of how many times he'd excused himself to vomit, only to return and raise another glass. By the time the client was satisfied, Michael felt hollowed out, a puppet with cut strings.
He remembered unlocking his door, clutching a fresh roll of toilet paper, intending to answer nature's call and then wash away the grime of the evening. Living alone in this maze-like urban village had its perks; he didn't have to worry about decency. He'd quickly stripped off his T-shirt and jeans, leaving them in a heap by the door. But instead of the familiar cold tiles of his bathroom, he was now standing in an open space, surrounded by the silhouettes of low, squat buildings against an ink-black sky. A power outage seemed to have plunged the entire area into darkness, but he could feel hidden eyes watching him from the shadows. Instinctual fear prickled at the back of his neck. He was alone, exposed, wearing nothing but his briefs.
His attention was snatched by a flickering light about two hundred meters away. A fire burned fiercely outside a three-story building, from which spilled the raucous sounds of music, boisterous male laughter, and exaggerated female shrieks. A bar. It seemed alive, a beacon of noise and warmth in the oppressive silence.
Logic, slow and hazy, finally offered an explanation: he must have blacked out from the alcohol. In his disoriented state, he'd wandered out of his room and into this unfamiliar part of the urban village—a place he'd never bothered to explore to save money. Now, lost and shivering, the bar seemed his only option for directions.
But he couldn't go like this. A grimace touched his lips as he looked down at himself. They'd mistake me for a lunatic.Then, his eyes fell on the roll of toilet paper still clutched in his hand. A desperate, absurd idea sparked. With frantic movements, he began wrapping the paper around his waist, covering his lower body, then his chest. The white strips coiled around him like a makeshift ceremonial garment. By the time the roll was spent, he was shrouded in a crinkling, fragile armor. It was ridiculous, but it was something.
Emboldened by the alcohol still coursing through him, he muttered, "Screw it. What's the worst that could happen?" and stumbled towards the distant fire.
As he drew closer, the scene sharpened. The fire came from a large metal barrel where a tire blazed, its flames vigorous but reeking of acrid, chemical-laden smoke. The flickering light illuminated two figures guarding the entrance—massive, shirtless bouncers. Michael, standing at a respectable 181 centimeters, found himself craning his neck upward; these men towered over him by a good head and a half. Their muscles weren't the sculpted, protein-powder perfection of gym enthusiasts, but the rugged, rock-hard bulk of men who relied on raw strength.
What truly gave him pause was their appearance. They were foreigners, with blond hair and blue eyes glinting in the firelight. But it was their bizarre costumes that made Michael blink: horned helmets sat upon their heads, large nose rings glinted, and—were those tailstwitching behind them? It took him a full minute to process the cosplay. They were dressed as minotaurs, or some kind of bull-like barbarians. Fancy, he thought, a nervous tremor running through him. This place must be expensive.
Before he could reconsider, the bouncers spotted him. Instead of the expected gruff command to leave, their expressions underwent a startling transformation. Their intimidating scowls melted into obsequious smiles. They bowed low, their backs bending in a show of deference that felt utterly alien.
"Welcome, Boss!" they chorused in heavily accented but clear English.
Michael's confusion deepened. Boss?Before he could form a question, his arms were seized in a firm, unyielding grip. The two men flanked him, their hold surprisingly gentle yet immovable, and ushered him inside with an air of eager hospitality that felt more like a capture. A cold dread pooled in his stomach. They were treating him like a prized catch, a sheep they were afraid might bolt. But why? He had no wallet, no phone, nothing of value.
A horrifying thought erupted in his mind: Are they… interested in me? Is this that kind of bar?His blood ran cold, and a primal urge to escape surged through him. But the hands gripping his arms were like iron clamps. He was dragged into the dim interior, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The inside of the bar was even more disorienting. Despite the apparent affluence suggested by the foreign bouncers, the place was lit only by a few oil lamps hanging on the walls, their flames casting long, dancing shadows. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, cheap ale, and unwashed bodies. In the cavernous, classroom-sized room, groups of patrons sat at rough-hewn wooden tables. Most, like the bouncers, were foreigners engaged in elaborate cosplay—men with bestial features, some with equine faces that looked absurdly comical in the flickering light. In one corner, an old speaker connected to a car battery blared out the music he'd heard outside.
His eyes darted around, taking in the scene. Female servers weaved through the crowd, their figures curvaceous and movements graceful even in the low light, their faces attractive enough. But any flicker of appreciation was extinguished by sheer terror. The male patrons, with their thick chest hair and intimidating builds, were now staring at him with a disconcerting intensity. Their gazes felt predatory. Michael trembled like a leaf caught in a storm, the paper wrappings crinkling with every shudder. This was no longer just an awkward situation; it felt dangerously real. Something was terribly wrong.