After gathering information with Ashley,
Myth and Sira headed back to their usual shift at the bar.
Tonight was different.
For the first time, Myth would be handling the bar entirely on his own. No Riff.
No annoying questions.
No eyes watching him too closely.
And that meant only one thing—he could start pushing his own agendas.
Quietly. Strategically.
He stood behind the counter, rolling up his sleeves, feeling the weight of opportunity settle on his shoulders.
The bell jingled. A familiar figure walked in.
"Regon," Myth greeted, voice casual. "What can I get you?"
Regon was one of the regulars—a tired man from the shoe factory on Street 3.
But to Myth, he was more than that.
He was a marked target. A piece on the board.
And with Riff gone, tonight was the night to make his move.
One customer at a time.
One loose thread pulled.
And Street 3 would start unraveling.
Regon settled onto one of the stools.
"I'm in the mood for a Rustbrew," he muttered, dropping his arms onto the metal counter with a dull thud.
Myth nodded silently.
By now, he'd gotten a pretty good read on people—especially based on the drinks they ordered.
Rustbrew usually meant one thing: a shitty day and bone-deep exhaustion.
"Alright…" Myth said, beginning to prepare the drink right in front of him.
He didn't speak.
Just let the silence stretch. Let it comfort the man.
Sometimes, silence spoke louder than any words.
"Here's your Rustbrew," Myth finally said, sliding the glass over.
Regon blinked awake from what looked like a half-second nap.
He grabbed the glass and took a long sip—letting out a sharp chissk sound between his teeth.
"That bastard really works us," he muttered. "Workin' us like dogs, you know?"
He took another sip.
"Today—I went from fucking morning 7:30 to night 7:30. Twelve hours straight. No breaks. No care if we drop dead."
Myth had heard this kind of rant a hundred times—especially from Rustbrew drinkers.
But tonight, he wasn't just going to listen.
Tonight, he'd cash in.
He turned toward Regon, voice lowering to something calm… concerned.
"Why don't you guys go to Zarin?" he asked quietly. "He's supposed to be a protector, right?"
Regon scoffed into his glass.
"I mean it," Myth continued, tone light but persistent. "He helped that hotel owner out—stood up to Rollo's thugs."
That made Regon pause.
He turned slowly, looking Myth in the eye.
"Let me tell you something, kid," he said. "Zarin's a bastard. Works for whoever throws the most money. He ain't no protector."
He leaned in slightly.
"Don't tell anyone I said that, alright?"
"Oh, of course not," Myth replied, lifting a hand in mock oath. "My lips are sealed."
Then, with perfect timing, he tilted his head—just a touch of innocent curiosity.
"But… why do you say that?"
Regon swirled the glass in his hand, watching the liquid settle.
"Me and my colleagues went on strike once. Wanted to cut down the work hours—nothing big."
He paused. The room felt still.
"Guess who showed up to silence us?"
Myth didn't blink.
"Zarin?"
Regon nodded, bitter.
"Didn't even flinch. Showed up with a warning. And a gun."
He downed the rest of his drink.
"He doesn't care about justice. He just works for the highest bidder."
Regon's words lingered.
Myth continued chatting with him idly, listening more than speaking. From time to time, he moved from one customer to another—serving drinks, tossing casual questions, and slipping in mentions of factories… and Zarin.
The bar grew livelier as the evening wore on.
More noise. More people. Less room for quiet, meaningful conversations.
But that worked out fine for Sira.
She moved from table to table, balancing trays, flashing polite smiles—catching bits and pieces of hushed talk.
She wasn't just serving drinks tonight. She was gathering intel.
That's when the regular thugs walked in.
They looked off.
A grim air clung to them—quieter than usual, their numbers fewer.
One of them slammed a drink back and muttered, "Are they fucking idiots?"
Another leaned in, voice low but harsh.
"How the fuck are we related to that attack?"
"The cops are on crack," someone else growled. "Ever since the hit, they've been grabbing everyone."
Sira, standing nearby with a tray, caught every word.
'The police are looking for us? Even Zarin's employer doesn't scare them now... That's bad. That means they're really serious.'
She didn't stop walking.
Didn't react.
Just smiled politely, served another round—and made her way back toward the counter.
A man sat alone at the far end of the bar.
Something about him tugged at Myth's memory.
He leaned forward slightly, squinting.
'That's… Riff?'
'What the hell is he doing here?
Wasn't I supposed to be alone tonight?'
Myth didn't flinch. Didn't let a hint of surprise touch his face.
He walked over smoothly, grabbing a glass.
"So, Riff," he said, casually. "What can I get you? It's on the house."
Riff didn't smile. Didn't order.
"Not having much luck, are you?" he said. "Getting the information you want from these people?"
Myth's hands tensed under the counter.
If this was just one of Riff's usual conversations, it'd be annoying. But this one… hit its mark.
Hard.
Still, he kept his voice level. And spoke causally.
"Haven't I told you before? Your conversation skills really need work," Myth said, wiping the same glass, slowly.
Riff sighed.
"And your manipulation skills are painfully rudimentary. I thought you'd have learned a thing or two by now, taking this job."
Myth blinked once.
Is he trying to bait me?
Trap me?
Catch me red-handed stuff?
But despite the unease crawling up his spine, curiosity gnawed at him harder.
"Riff…" Myth said carefully. "I don't think I follow. What are you trying to say?"
As always, Riff acted like he hadn't heard him. He just went on—like he was reading from a script.
"You never really listen to people," Riff said calmly. "You listen only when you want something. And when you do—you pull them into your rhythm."
He leaned forward slightly. "It works for now."
This time, Myth didn't interrupt.
He wasn't trying to refute Riff's words.
He was listening—carefully.
But he wasn't going to bite either.
So he stayed silent.
Riff expected that. Of course he did.
He took a slow breath and continued:
"You don't have much time left, so I'll be blunt."
He raised one finger.
"First—your manipulations aren't subtle. Anyone with a sharp eye—anyone who knows you well—will see right through them."
He tapped a finger once on the counter.
"Second—to build that rhythm you rely on… you end up showing your cards."
He looked up. "And that's never a good strategy."
He paused.
"Rustbrew, please."
Myth nodded and began preparing the drink. He didn't rush it. He placed the glass down with practiced ease.
Riff lifted the third finger.
"Third—you play on a logical level, not an emotional one. Because honestly, you can't play on emotions. You don't listen closely enough. You don't care enough."
He paused for a moment. Then added, almost begrudgingly:
"You're a good liar."
"It's the perfect weapon one could ask for—to manipulate people emotionally."
He leaned forward slightly. Voice quiet, deliberate.
"But the problem is... you don't use it right."
The Rustbrew slid across the counter. Riff didn't touch it.
Then he raised a fourth finger.
"Fourth—this method you're using? It's risky. An intelligent opponent could flip it around on you and you wouldn't even see it coming."
He finally picked up the drink, swirling it in the glass—watching the liquid spiral.
Then he raised a fifth finger.
"Fifth—emotions and personal insight? They verify what someone says. They add weight. Make it harder to lie. Harder to resist."
He looked up, dead in the eye.
"And you… you lack that safety net."
Myth paused, then asked with genuine curiosity, "Who are you really, Riff?"
Riff just smirked.
"You'll have to find out, won't you."
Myth knew pressing for answers would be useless. That was just how Riff was—he just won't answer.
Still, the fact that Riff had seen through him so easily—that Myth was working the bar for information—was telling. It confirmed one thing: Riff wasn't a fool in this manipulation stuff.
And despite everything, Myth couldn't help but admit it—he had a good impression of the man.
Annoying? Absolutely.
But a chill boss. One who gave space. One who didn't hover.
So, he made a quiet decision.
He would try to learn more about Riff.
But before he could ask another question, Riff stood up.
"I'll be back in an hour," he said casually, and walked out.
Meanwhile, Sira had taken the moment to ask Togan—the brute chief—for a few food recipes.
It seemed she wanted to help out at the house.
Or maybe… she was just not able cope with Myth and Ashley's cooking.
Eventually, the shift ended. The bar lights dimmed. They locked up.
Back home, Ashley had already finished cooking.
The three of them ate. They talked, laughed.
Then a heavy silence settled over them. Not awkward—just serious.
Because dinner ended…
It was time to talk business.