Not built into a wall. Not part of any building.

  Just a door. Freestanding. Tall, dark, with iron bands like something ripped from an old European castle. It hadn’t been there a moment ago. He was sure of that.

  Jasper blinked. He took a step closer. And that’s when he noticed: the alley was quiet. Too quiet. No vending machines humming. No distant sirens. No wind. Even the city’s electric breath had stilled. Only the door. It was warm, somehow. Not in temperature, but in feel—like it knew he was there. His throat was dry.

  “This is what sleep deprivation does,” he said aloud, trying to ground himself.

  But he stepped closer. The door had no handle. Just a large brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head, its mane curling into odd symbols that shifted slightly when he wasn’t looking directly at them. Jasper reached out. His fingers hesitated an inch away.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” he whispered to himself. And knocked. Once, twice. Nothing happened.

  Then—click.

  The sound wasn’t mechanical. It was older than that. Like stone moving over stone, or the shifting of tectonic plates. The door opened inward. There was no one there. Just a narrow hallway lined with lanterns. Warm. Wood-panelled. Smoky with the scent of spices and citrus peel and something faintly metallic, like ozone after lightning.

  Jasper stepped through.

  And the door closed behind him. The hallway curved gently as he walked, lanterns flickering with a light that wasn’t quite fire. More like bottled starlight—dim and steady, casting soft shadows on polished wood walls that looked older than memory. The air smelled faintly of juniper and spice, like some kind of holiday he’d never celebrated.

  Then the hallway opened. And Jasper stopped in his tracks. It wasn’t what he expected. If he had expected anything at all. The space beyond wasn’t massive, but it breathed like it was alive. The ceiling arched overhead in dark beams that hummed softly, as if whispering to one another. Tables of every shape and size were scattered across a worn, warm floor—round tables, square ones, some that floated a few inches off the ground. Each surrounded by an eclectic mess of chairs: stools with too many legs, cushions that adjusted to the shape of whoever sat, great stone slabs worn smooth, and even one that looked like a jellyfish had solidified mid-air. It was chaotic, but intentional, like a painter’s palette of cultures and comforts.

  On the right, a stone hearth crackled with an ever-burning fire. The flames danced in slow, mesmerizing swirls of amber and deep blue, casting long shadows that reached but never touched.

  On the opposite wall, nestled in a niche of obsidian stone, was something stranger—a basin of black ice, perpetually cold. A mist of frost drifted from it, gathering in feathered spirals on the nearby floorboards. It made Jasper’s skin tighten with goosebumps.

  And at the far end, like a ship’s helm, stood the bar.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  It wasn’t a flat slab of wood, but an elegant arc that curved into the room, forming a crescent of polished darkroot timber. Bottles lined the wall behind it—bottles of shapes and colours he’d never seen. Some glowed faintly. Others pulsed. Behind the bar, three doors. One plain, one reinforced with brass rivets, and one carved with a spiralling symbol that made his eyes itch if he stared too long.

  And then—

  “Oh! You’re already here? I’m coming, I’m coming!”

  The voice rang out from behind the bar. It had an odd lilt—accentless, but warm, like the voice of someone used to hosting. A moment later, a figure appeared from behind the crescent bar, ducking beneath a low arch with two scuffed leather suitcases in hand.

  He wasn’t… exactly human. Tall-ish, thin, with skin the color of bronze. His eyes were wide, completely black and glossy, with faint silvery specks swimming within them like stars. He had no hair, but a thin membrane of translucent, fin-like crests that folded back over his skull. He wore a vest with far too many pockets, trousers patched with materials Jasper didn’t recognize, and a faint, permanent smile.

  “There you are!” the figure said, dropping one suitcase and extending a hand. “You’re early. I like that. Shows initiative. I’m Barlik, former keeper of the Wayward Taproom.” He leaned in, eyes sparkling. “And you, lucky man, are my replacement.”

  Jasper blinked. “What?”

  “Right, yes, of course. Sudden. I get it. But listen—this has been in the works for months. I sent out the call weeks ago. Weeks! You must’ve felt it. The itch in your spine, the dreams. The feeling that you were supposed to be somewhere else?”

  “I—no. I mean, someone died. There was a…someone died.” Jasper stumbled over the words, still unsure if this was real or a morphine coma.

  Barlik waved a hand. “Oh, pfft. People die everywhere, all the time. That’s hardly relevant. What matters is you made it. You walked through the door. That makes you the new tender.”

  “The what?”

  “Bartender. Keeper. Innkeeper, barkeep, guardian, reluctant therapist—whatever word your people use. You’re in charge now.” He gestured to the bar, beaming like a man handing over the keys to a classic car. “It’s all yours.

  Jasper opened his mouth. Barlik kept talking.

  “I’ve been negotiating with the Council for years to get some time off, and finally—finally—they agreed. Two solar cycles. That’s like… seventeen of your months, I think? Doesn’t matter. I’m going somewhere with beaches and zero gravity.”

  “Sleeping quarters are through the left door behind the bar. Small but clean. Decent mattress. The door on the side is the cellar. And that other door leads to the washrooms, obviously. Species-standard plumbing.

  “You’ll figure it out,” Barlik said, lifting his second suitcase. “The taps respond to your intent. They’ve got almost everything on them. He took a last look around, then sighed, content.

  “Well. That’s it. It’s yours. Keep it standing. Don’t worry too much. The bar runs itself in the important ways. And hey—don’t forget to eat. There’s a pantry in the cellar, always restocked. Somehow.”

  He was already walking toward the entrance Jasper had come through.

  “But—I don’t even know how I got here.” Barlik turned, walking backwards now. “Door took you, didn’t it? That’s all that matters. You were needed. The rest? That’s the fun part.”

  Barlik was halfway to the door when he paused, turned, and glanced over his shoulder. “One more thing.”

  Jasper looked up from where he was still standing behind the bar, hands resting lightly on its surface, as if trying to feel for something beneath the wood.

  “You’re here because you’re a real bartender,” Barlik said, voice softer now, no longer rushed. “Not just a guy slinging drinks to pay rent. Not someone who ended up behind a counter by accident and plans to run the moment something shinier comes along. You’re the kind that listens. That watches. That remembers what someone needs, not just what they order. The bar… it knows. It finds its own.”

  Jasper opened his mouth, then shut it again. The words struck something inside him—deep and a little sore. Barlik tilted his head. “Seventeen months, give or take. Is that going to be a problem?”

  Jasper exhaled slowly. The image of the blood on the floor back in Tokyo, the sharp crunch of bone, the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears—it all washed through him. Then he shook his head. “No. I… I need to disappear for a while. Lay low. Think.”

  Barlik smiled. “You see? Perfect. It all works out.”

  Then, without another word, he turned again and stepped through the door—into a sunlit world of sun-soaked shoreline under three moons. A sky like violet silk and a breeze that carried music Jasper didn’t recognize. Jasper watched as the door gently closed behind him.

  And just like that, he was alone.