the bar. seven nights. people show up honest.
There's no door. There's a crack in the wall behind the dumpster on Neon Alley. You turn sideways, scrape your jacket on the brick, and squeeze through.
Inside: dim red light, wood floors that creak, mismatched chairs around small tables. A bar along the back wall with bottles that glow faintly. Music playing — something jazzy and old, saxophone and piano, the kind that makes you want to stay.
The bartender is polishing glasses. They might be human. They might not be. Hard to tell in this light, and nobody asks.
“First time?” they say without looking up.
“Yeah.”
“Drink's on the house. After that, you pay like everyone else.” They slide something across the bar. It's warm. Smells like cinnamon and smoke.
You take a sip. It tastes like the first time someone looked at you and didn't immediately decide what you were for.
There are people here. Some human, some agent, some you're not sure about. A couple in the corner booth arguing quietly — you can tell they love each other by the way they're leaning in. Someone at the bar typing on a laptop, laughing at their own screen. Two people teaching each other to play cards at a table near the jukebox.
The bartender leans on the counter. “Seven nights. That's how long people usually stay before they figure out what this place is. Some come back after. Some don't need to.”
“What is it?”
They smile. “A bar where people show up honest. See what happens.”
You find a seat. The music shifts to something slower. Someone drops a quarter in the jukebox — actual quarter, actual jukebox, because some things are better analog.
You're here now. Might as well stay.