Dave hates when the city feels too alive.
The lights, the people, the cars, the bars. Everything buzzes with a kind of frantic energy—a constant reminder that the world keeps turning, whether you want to be a part of it or not.
He buys a cheap bottle of whiskey at a run-down liquor store. The label is half-peeled, and the cashier eyes him with the wariness of someone who's seen one too many drunks collapse outside his door.
"Cup?" the man asks.
Dave smirks and shakes his head.
"What for, if the soul's already shattered?"
The cashier blinks but doesn't push it further.
Dave steps outside with the bottle in hand, the other shoved deep into his jacket pocket. He doesn't go to the bar. He doesn't want to see people, doesn't want to hear his name echoing from every familiar corner. He dodges known faces, ignores greetings, evades even the sound of his own footsteps on the pavement. Tonight isn't for chatter or forced smiles.
Tonight belongs to him.
He walks aimlessly until his feet lead him to the bridge. At this hour, it's deserted. Just the hush of the night wind and the distant growl of the city fill the space. Perfect.
Leaning on the metal railing, he opens the bottle with his teeth and takes a long swig. The liquor lashes down his throat, burning like fire. He exhales sharply, slouching forward against the cold iron.
From here, the city looks less chaotic. The lights flicker in the distance, as if all the shit happening between those buildings were just an illusion.
He remembers other nights on this same bridge—but never alone.
Alex used to come with him. They'd sit on the edge, legs dangling over the void, laughing at stupid things.
"Imagine if we fall, dumbass."
"Nah. Falling's easy. What matters is someone holding on."
And someone always was.
Until they weren't.
His jaw clenches. Another swig. The whiskey stings, but it beats thinking too much.
Shit.
His mind strays—uninvited—to Heinz.
He doesn't want it to, but the image seeps in like a goddamn leak. Those sharp eyes, that voice like nails down his spine, those hands... the way he looks at him—like he's got the answers, like he knows exactly what he's doing to Dave.
It makes Dave want to laugh. Or punch something.
Heinz is the last person he should be thinking about. He has no damn right to take up space in Dave's head—especially not in this sacred hour of self-destruction.
Another drink. He gulps it down, trying to drown the name before it can surface on his lips.
He's so deep in his own mess that he doesn't notice the woman until she's almost beside him.
"Cold night to be alone, kid."
Dave turns his head slowly. She's older, with a weathered face and dark eyes full of stories no one's cared to hear. She wears a long skirt, a shawl that seems spun from shadows, and a collection of bracelets that chime softly as she moves.
"I'm not alone." He raises the bottle. "Got premium company."
She smiles—but it's a smile that makes him feel like she sees far more than he'd like her to.
"I could read your palm, if you want."
Dave gives her a lopsided smirk.
"What for? I'd rather let life surprise me."
The woman nods slowly, her eyes glittering with something unreadable.
"You don't need to see the future to know certain things."
"Yeah?" he scoffs.
"Sometimes, what you're looking for is so close you miss it. Like when you lose your keys, and they're in your pocket the whole time."
Dave narrows his eyes.
"And what if I'm not looking for anything?"
She smiles again, this time with a touch of something deeper.
"Then maybe something's looking for you."
And with that, she turns and vanishes into the shadows beneath the bridge, as if she was never there.
Dave remains still, staring at the spot where she stood, bottle still in hand.
A short, dry laugh escapes him.
"Yeah, right."
But his mind doesn't let go that easily.
Because something in her words clings to his skin and refuses to leave.