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Night settled in as the streetlights flickered on, turning what had once been a lively street into a quiet, near-deserted stretch. The blue-haired man, dressed in a black shirt and dark green camo pants, pushed open the door and stepped into the bar.
Inside, the smell of alcohol and citrus hung in the air, layered with the low hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and soft jazz drifting through the background. Neon signs and backlit shelves lined with bottles of alcohol adorned the walls as the pendant lamps gave the room an amber hue. Exhaustion weighed on him as he took a seat on one of the stools facing the entrance.
It had been a long day. The kind that fogged up his mind.
He scanned the room, not noticing when his attention settled on the gray-haired man across the bar.
Not at first.
The man stood out without trying to, dressed in a black suit with matching slacks, still uncreased even this late into the night. Sunglasses resting low on their nose, headphones hanging loosely around their neck, with a black fedora tipped back just enough to reveal their silver hair catching the amber light as they chatted with the bartender.
Only after a few minutes did he realise his gaze kept drifting back. The way the other man flipped their coin without looking. The way they’d lean back in their chair and laugh, as if they were the most carefree person in the world.
Guest frowned to himself. Quit staring, that’s pretty fucking weird of you.
Too late.
The gray-haired man had stopped flipping their coin, fingers closing around it as their gaze lifted. Their eyes met for the briefest moment. The man smiled, then turned back
toward the bartender.
Guest watched as they spoke to the bartender, gesturing casually before picking up two drinks. When they turned again, their attention remained fixed as they strided crossed the room, taking a seat beside him.
“You come here often?” they asked, setting one glass down and nudging it closer. “This one’s on me.”
He hesitated, then accepted it.
“Not really,” he replied.
The drink was a little too flamboyant for his taste, its bright red coloured liquid beneath a citrus mist, a lime slice perched on the rim of the martini glass. Still, he wrapped his fingers around the stem and took a sip.
It was good. Annoyingly so.
“You always buy drinks for strangers?” he asked.
The gray-haired man paused, then replied, “Only the interesting ones.”
“Gonna tell me your name, or should I keep guessing?”
A pause. Then a smile.
“Chance,” they said. “And yours?”
“Guest,” he replied after a second.
Guest turned the glass slowly in his hand, watching light catch in the liquid as the music shifted into something slower. Across from him, Chance rolled their coin across their knuckles, a faint scraping of metal against skin before it dropped onto the table.
Heads.
Chance didn’t look at it, instead turning to face him.
“Bad day?” they asked casually.
Guest considered lying, but found that he didn’t have the energy for it.
“Long one,” he said instead.
Chance hummed in agreement. “Those are the worst. Short bad days end quicker. Long ones just drain the hell outta you.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
Guest glanced at them, then away. “Not really.”
Chance nodded. “Alright.”
Silence settled between them for a moment. The coin slipped from Chance’s grasp, clinking softly against the counter.
“You always keep that thing on you?” Guest asked, gesturing toward it.
Chance glanced down, then back up.
“Luck,” they said, swirling what remained of their drink. Ice knocked gently against the glass. “You believe in luck?”
Guest blinked once, twice, considering.
“Well,” he said lightly. “Hard to say. Luck’s almost never on my side.”
Their conversation drifted from there — Bad days, music, luck, whatever they could think of. The bartender returned with two wide-rimmed glasses of margarita, setting them down between them, condensation already forming on the glass.
Guest reached for his at the same time Chance did.
Their hands almost meet.
Almost.
Guest pulled back first, more of a reflex than a choice.
“Sorry,” Chance mumbled, even though nothing had happened.
“It’s fine,” Guest replied.
His vision blurred slightly from having one drink too many, though he kept drinking anyway. Chance’s fingers curled around their glass, lingering there without taking a sip while their coin rested on the counter beside them, forgotten for once.
Someone laughed nearby, loud and sudden. Guest’s shoulders tensed before he realized it.
“Crowded places get to you?” Chance asked, offhandedly.
Guest considered brushing it off. Though he didn’t.
“Sometimes,” he said.
Chance nodded once, as if that explained everything.
After a moment, they smirked. “Anyone ever told you you're easy to sit next to?”
Guest paused, then replied, “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Take it or leave it,” Chance said lightly, turning back to their drink. “Most people I’ve met make a lot more noise.”
Guest said nothing, nodding once, though the compliment lingered.
Chance’s knee brushed his beneath the counter. Barely there. Probably an accident.
Neither of them moved away.
The music shifted again, slower and deeper.
Chance leaned back slightly, their gaze drifting towards Guest. “Hypothetically,” they began.
Guest eyed them. “Those are never just hypotheticals.”
Chance grinned, then added, “Humor me.”
They tapped the coin once against the bar. “Say, someone owed a lot of money.”
“How much was a lot?”
“Enough to be inconvenient.”
Guest waited.
Chance sighed theatrically. “Alright. Let’s just say to persistent people.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“And let’s say they could pay it back. Easily.”
Guest turned towards them. “Then they should.”
“No hesitation?”
“No,” Guest answered. “That’s not a debt you play games with.”
Chance stopped fiddling with their coin. “What if they didn’t want to?”
Guest’s voice remained flat. “Then they’re not looking for advice. They’re looking for approval.”
Silence stretched between them for a moment.
Chance laughed softly, brushing the matter off lightly. “Relax. It’s not about me.”
“Didn’t say it was,” Guest replied.
Chance eyed him for a long moment, then said quietly, “You’d really just settle it?”
Guest nodded once. “I wouldn’t let it become someone else’s problem.”
Chance looked away, toying with their coin again. “Yeah. Thought you might say that.”
The music shifted once more.
The bar felt a little less forgiving.
Somewhere along the way, the conversation wandered again, topics changing every so often. Short stories, music tastes, anything that filled the space between silences.
Chance was mid-sentence when they stopped. Not abruptly, just... unfinished.
Their attention shifted towards the window beside the entrance, the coin resting between their fingers before they pocketed it.
Guest followed their gaze, the tinted glass reflecting the bar back at them, making it difficult to look outside.
Chance tilted their head slightly, watching as two figures across the street steadily approached the bar, clearly meaning business.
Chance exhaled, somewhat amused.
“Well,” they said softly, “that’s unfortunate timing.”
Guest frowned. “What is?”
Chance didn’t answer immediately. Instead, reaching into their suit jacket, pulling out a notepad and pen, writing quickly.
They folded the paper once, sliding it toward Guest with two fingers.
“For you,” they added.
Guest looked at the slip of paper, then back up. “What?”
“In case we don’t get the chance to finish our conversations properly.”
“You’re leaving.”
“Briefly,” Chance muttered. “I hope.”
They stood up, adjusting their suit, heading towards the side exit instead of the main door. Only then did Guest notice the gun suspended at their belt with a holster.
Halfway to the door, Chance looked back.
Guest watched as if it might be the last time he saw them.
Maybe it was.
A silence settled between them.
Chance smiled, the same smile they wore the whole night, just softer now.
His eyes caught theirs once more, watching as they whispered a quiet goodbye, before the side door swung shut.
The bar carried on unchanged. Glasses clinked. Someone laughing too loudly. The music kept playing in the background.
Guest flipped open the slip of paper — a phone number sat isolated at the centre of the page.
He traced the number once with his thumb before folding the paper close, slipping it into his pocket.
The night dragged on, but its weight felt lighter now.