"He who has built a fortress around his heart will rarely find anyone strong enough to siege it." - Someone perhaps.
Is that warmth again... And it's not the bloody sun this time.
No... It's nothing outwardly. This warmth... Comes from the inside. His inside.
Logan lay on his back, the rough bark of an ancient oak tree pressing against his spine. It might be the first time in a long time... Is this... Relaxation? No stress, no guilt, everything just felt... Right. He felt light.
Somewhere to his left, just past the edge of his vision, laughter erupted. It was the sound of children. Two of them. The high, breathless shriek of a chase. He tried to turn his head, to see who was breaking the silence of his sanctuary, but his neck felt heavy, like he was moving through deep water. He caught only flashes—a blur of movement, a small hand reaching for a ball, the ghost of a red cape or maybe a scarf.
"Careful kids," a voice said. "It seems like your father is tired."
The voice was closer. It was a sound that made his chest ache, a melody he knew he had never heard but had missed for centuries. It was warm, like a hearth fire in a drafty castle.
Logan looked up.
She was standing over him, blocking out the sun. The golden light haloed around her, setting the edges of her hair on fire. She was wearing something soft, a dress that moved with the wind, smelling faintly of old paper and cinnamon.
She reached down, extending a hand toward him. Her palm was open, inviting, like a lifeline.
"Come on, don't tell me you're gonna sleep here all day." she said, her voice teasing, vibrating with a kindness he didn't deserve. "Dinner is getting cold."
He lifted his own hand. His knuckles were scarred, the skin rough and calloused. He reached for her, desperate to touch that warmth, to anchor himself to this impossible peace. He strained his eyes, fighting the golden glare. He saw the curve of a jaw, the dark tumble of curls, the hint of a smile that promised forgiveness. But just as he tried to focus on her features, the sunlight flared. It became too bright, too white, washing her away.
"Why are you so slow today? The kids will get impatient" she whispered. He stands up and tries to get closer to her to see who this woman is...
*METAL MUSIC BLARES*
His eyes shot open, and he found himself in his own bed, tangled in sheets. His alarm blared from the bedside table, the aggressive rhythm of a metal band vibrating through the room.
Heart pounding, he sat up, disoriented, the vividness of the dream still clinging to him like a second skin.
But as the adrenaline faded, so did the warmth. The smell of cinnamon vanished, choked out by the reality of his existence—the bitter chill of a dead fireplace, the stale odor of old books, and the suffocating silence of a house where no one else breathed.
He reached out and slammed his hand down on the alarm clock, killing the noise.
Silence rushed back in, heavy and oppressive. Logan swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet hitting the freezing floorboards. He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble of a man who had stopped caring about the mirror long ago.
"Just a dream," he muttered to the empty room. His voice was a rusty scrape in the dark. "Just a bloody dream."
Taking a deep breath, he turned his head toward the window. Morning sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting a soft, golden glow across the room. The light warmed his pale skin, a gentle reminder that he was still here, still alive in this world, far removed from the nightmare he had just escaped.
Grabbing his phone from the nightstand, he checked the date, squinting at the screen against the glare.
January 29, 2018
He stared at the numbers for a moment, letting the date sink in. Another day in Inkdale. Another day at the green market.
His mind still buzzed with the strange fragments of the dream but he pushed them aside, forcing them into the same mental box where he kept his guilt and his memories. He knew he had things to do.
He stood, stretching out his stiff muscles, his spine cracking audibly in the quiet room. He walked to his wardrobe, which was more of a utility locker than a closet. His usual clothes were already laid out from the night before: a simple, worn black shirt and dark jeans.
He dressed quickly. He pulled on his boots with practiced ease, the leather familiar and molded to his feet, then shrugged into his leather jacket.
Logan caught his reflection in the mirror on the back of the door. The man staring back looked tired, hard, and entirely alone.
"Good," he whispered.
He turned his back on the mirror and headed out of the bedroom.
The basement was his next destination. Descending the creaky wooden stairs, he flicked on the single lightbulb. The space below immediately filled with the earthy scent of the crops he had stored there.
Bins and crates lined the walls, stocked with vegetables, bundles of drying herbs, and a few rarer plants he tended to.
Logan grabbed a crate near the stairs, checking the leaves of some vegetables. "Ready," he murmured.
He hoisted the crate onto his shoulder effortlessly, the weight meaning nothing to him, and turned back toward the stairs. It was time to open the stand.
His breath hung in the crisp late January air as he stepped outside, the cold biting at his exposed face and hands. The contrast between the stagnant air of the house and the sharp chill outside was jarring, but it was familiar. It woke him up better than the coffee could.
Locking the door behind him with a heavy click, he turned toward the driveway where his ride waited—a black muscle car, sleek and powerful, its polished surface gleaming dangerously under the soft morning light. It was his pride and joy, a beast of a machine. Four doors, but no less intimidating for it, with an engine that he kept tuned to perfection and curves that looked like they were carved from midnight.
He approached the car, his boots crunching loudly on the frost-covered gravel, and popped the trunk. The cold metal of the lid stung his fingertips, but he barely noticed, his mind already shifting into work mode. Inside, the trunk was lined with old but sturdy wool blankets to keep the produce secure and insulated during the drive.
Carefully, he placed the crates of fresh harvest inside. The vibrant greens of the kale and the deep purple of the specialized roots were a stark, living contrast to the dead gray of the winter landscape surrounding him.
He slammed the trunk shut, the sound echoing across the empty fields.
He slid into the driver's seat, the interior embracing him with the scent of old leather and faint motor oil. He adjusted the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of his own tired eyes before looking away.
Turning the key, the car roared to life, the engine's growl vibrating through the chassis and up into his spine. He couldn't help but let a small, rare smile touch his lips at the sound. It was the only voice he liked listening to these days. The road to the market stretched ahead, waiting to be conquered.
He pulled out of the driveway, the tires crunching over the frost-bitten ground as he navigated the still, deserted streets of Inkdale.
The town was a strange paradox. Gothic spires and grim stone arches from centuries past stood side by side with sleek, modern buildings made of glass and steel. It was a place where history seemed to linger in every shadow, clinging to the gargoyles and the cobblestones, even as the present marched forward, trying to bury the old world under neon and concrete.
He drove past narrow alleys and a towering cathedral in the middle of the town, the car's engine humming a steady, predatory rhythm that cut through the silence. Inkdale always felt eerie in the early hours, the mist curling around the base of the buildings like a living thing, the cold air settling into every corner. It was a strange harmony, but he had grown used to it.
As he pulled into the Green Market, the familiar hustle and bustle greeted him, though it was quieter than usual in the biting chill of January.
The market was a maze of makeshift stalls and canvas tents fluttering in the wind. Most vendors had arrived in rusted pickup trucks or battered vans with the faded logos of local family farms.
His sleek black muscle car was a stark contrast. It looked like a panther sitting among livestock, catching the wary attention of everyone who passed by.
He stepped out, retrieving his crates from the trunk. The wood was rough against his hands, heavy with the density of the crops.
He carried them to his assigned spot. Stall 4. It was the one in the corner, always in the shade. He could feel the eyes of the other vendors on him, and it felt heavier than usual today.
He caught a few whispers, hushed conversations that died in the throat the moment he walked near.
He kept his focus. He had perfected this routine, setting up his display so it stood out just enough to sell, but not enough to beg for attention. Today was just another market day. Another chance to blend in, despite the ever-present feeling that he was a wolf trying to walk among sheep without baring his teeth.
He ran a hand through his hair, pushing the thick, pitch-black strands back from his forehead. The messy curtain bangs fell right back into place, casting a shadow over his dark, stoic eyes.
His stall was ready. Whatever those glances meant, they could wait.
The market was coming alive, the hum of conversation rising with the sun. But that hum was abruptly pierced by a sneering voice that grated on Logan's ears like metal on bone.
"Well, well. Look who we have here. Logan Osborne, back again."
The voice cut through the noise like a blade, dripping with a mock friendliness that barely covered the malice underneath.
Logan didn't need to look up to know who it was. He recognized that tone. Contempt oozing from every syllable, smelling of cheap cologne and old money.
Slowly, deliberately, Logan straightened up. He turned to see the stout figure of Patrick Avide approaching. His broad chest was puffed out with a self-satisfied air, his thick mustache twitching as he sauntered closer. He wasn't alone, of course. He was flanked by a few other farmers. Men with hard eyes and weak chins, his so-called "friends" who followed in his shadow like hyenas waiting for a lion to leave a kill.
Logan stared at them, his expression dead calm.
"Avide," Logan said, his voice a low rumble. "You're blocking my light."
Patrick blinked, the self-satisfied grin faltering for a fraction of a second before he forced a wet, wheezing chuckle. He stepped closer, invading Logan's personal space.
He was a heavy-set man, built like a beer barrel with legs, his broad chest straining against the fabric of his flannel shirt. He wasn't tall, standing at 170 cm, he was just shy of Logan's height but he carried himself with the heavy, clumsy arrogance of a man who owned the pavement he stood on.
"Blocking your light?" Patrick repeated, tipping the brim of his hat back with a thick thumb. "I'm the only reason there's any light in this town, Osborne. Me and the Council."
He reached out, his meaty fingers snatching one of the violet-veined roots from Logan's display. He turned it over in his hand, inspecting it with exaggerated disgust.
"Still growing this witch-weed, I see," Patrick sneered, tossing the vegetable back into the crate with enough force to bruise it. "You know, decent folks don't eat this garbage. They want corn. They want soy. They want what I grow. I'm surprised you even came back."
Logan's face hardened, his expression shifting into a cold, impenetrable mask. He leaned back against the wooden support of his stall, crossing his arms over his leather jacket.
"Why wouldn't I be?" Logan asked, his voice flat.
Patrick's grin widened beneath his thick mustache, the mockery in his eyes unmistakable. "We haven't seen you since December. Thought you might've thrown in the towel. Winter's hard on the amateurs."
Logan didn't blink. "Didn't have a reason to come around. Made enough profit in December to keep me busy."
Patrick's smirk deepened. He took a step closer, invading Logan's personal space again, his voice dropping into a mockery of concern. "Things have changed, Osborne. And not in your favor."
Logan's dark eyes flicked to the group of men trailing behind Patrick. His gaze cut through them before landing back on the ringleader.
"Yeah, I've noticed," Logan drawled. "You've got minions now. Fits your big nose and that balding head. Always need a crowd to feel tall, don't you?"
Patrick's smirk wavered for a second, his eyes narrowing as his bravado faltered under the direct insult. He stiffened, his chest puffing out like a threatened bullfrog.
"Listen, boy," he growled, stepping closer until Logan could smell the stale tobacco on his breath. "I'm not here for a chat. I'm here to help you."
"Help?" Logan raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "With what exactly? My fashion sense?"
Patrick gestured toward Logan's produce, his hand sweeping in a wide, dismissive arc.
"Aren't you tired of selling these scarred, pitiful crops? Tired of being poor? Sell me your land and work for me. I'll pay you more than you make now. You're strong, even if you're not the tallest. I could use a back like yours in the warehouse."
Logan's expression remained impassive.
"No," Logan said simply. "My land isn't for sale. And I'm proud of my crops, even if they're not perfect."
The fake niceties evaporated from Patrick's face in an instant, replaced with sharp, biting anger. The blood rushed to his cheeks, turning them a blotchy red.
"Listen to me, boy," he spat, his voice rising, drawing the attention of nearby shoppers. "I don't know who you think you are, but this is the chance of a lifetime. Don't let stupidity get the best of you."
Logan shook his head, his voice calm but resolute. "Stupidity? Hm. I'd rather call it ego. The ego of a farmer."
Patrick's face flushed darker with fury. "Ego? What ego do you even have? You're a disgrace to all of us! Look at your pathetic crops! So imperfect and riddled with scars!"
Logan remained steady. Slowly, he reached out and grabbed a large, slightly misshapen tomato from his stall. He held it up to the light, inspecting it.
Then, with a fluid motion, he pulled a pocket knife from his belt.
He calmly sliced the tomato in half. Juice dripped onto the wood, revealing a vibrant, red interior that smelled of summer and rich earth.
"They might not look perfect, but they're good inside," Logan said, wiping the blade on his jeans. "It's the end of January and no one expects perfection. I know more about farming than you think."
He looked up, a subtle, dangerous smirk curling his lips.
"And hey... at least my crops are chemical-free. Unlike... well, you know who."
The air around them grew heavy. The other farmers shifted uncomfortably, exchanging nervous glances. Everyone knew the rumors about Avide's chemical fertilizers, about the strange sicknesses near his runoff.
Patrick's face twisted with rage, his voice booming across the market.
"How dare you insult us! We've got more years in this business than you've got under your belt! Do you even know who we are?! We're the cream of the crop in this damn business! And a little whippersnapper like you has the nerve to mock us?!"
Patrick slammed his hand on the stall, shaking the crates.
"No one has ever refused me, boy! No one! You're gonna regret this! You hear me?! You're gonna regret this!"
Logan didn't flinch. He didn't even blink.
"Mhm."
Patrick's hands balled into fists, his knuckles white. He looked like he wanted to swing, but something in Logan's dead, dark eyes stopped him. A primal instinct warning him that the man behind the counter wasn't prey.
Patrick turned sharply on his heel. "You'll be so broke, you'll starve!" he bellowed, storming away, his lackeys scurrying after him like frightened rats.
Logan watched them go, twirling the pocket knife in his fingers before snapping it shut.
"I'll work for him when pigs fly," he muttered to himself.
The air around the stall settled back into a fragile peace, though the scent of Patrick's cheap cologne lingered like a bad memory. Logan exhaled slowly, rearranging the tomatoe he had sliced, wiping the juice from the wood.
He didn't have to wait long for the next customer.
"Oh look, babe! These look amazing!"
The voice was bright, airy, and sickeningly happy.
Logan looked up. Standing in front of his stall was a young couple, probably in their early twenties. They were bundled up in matching puffer jackets, their fingers interlaced so tightly their knuckles were white. They were leaning into each other, sharing body heat, creating their own little private island of warmth in the middle of the freezing market.
Logan felt a sharp, acidic twist in his gut.
He didn't hate them. Hate required energy he didn't have. It was something colder and heavier. It was envy, thick and suffocating.
The boy reached out to pick up a bunch of kale, but his other hand found hers again. He whispered something in her ear, and she giggled, burying her face in his shoulder.
The sound grated on Logan's nerves. Which made him roll his eyes.
"How much for the kale?" the boy asked, finally looking at Logan. His eyes were bright, unburdened by the weight Logan usually carried.
"Two dollars," Logan said. His voice was flat, devoid of the customer-service warmth the other vendors feigned.
He watched as the boy fumbled for his wallet, dropping a receipt in the process, laughing awkwardly as he bent to retrieve it.
"Sorry, hands are cold," the boy mumbled, finally extracting two crumpled bills.
The girl fixed the boy's wallet and put it back in his jacket pocket, her fingers lingering on his chest for a second longer than necessary. It was such a small, unconscious gesture of intimacy.
He took the cash the boy offered, his calloused fingers brushing against the kid's soft, unworked skin. The contact felt electric and wrong.
"Keep the change," the boy said cheerfully.
"I don't need your charity," Logan grunted, shoving the coins back into the kid's hand. "Take your kale."
The couple blinked, surprised before nodding awkwardly.
"Uh... thanks. Have a good one," the boy stammered.
They walked away, their shoulders bumping together, their hands finding each other again instantly, like magnets snapping back into place.
Logan watched them go until they disappeared into the crowd. He stood alone in the shadow of his stall, the cold wind biting through his leather jacket, feeling more hollow than he had before they arrived.
"Have a good one," he mimicked quietly to the empty air.
As the hours passed, the envy he felt toward the couple was buried under the sheer weight of commerce. Logan's stall transformed from a quiet corner into a hub of activity. His modest assortment of produce disappeared faster than he had anticipated. It left him with little more than empty crates and satisfied customers. By the afternoon, his table was nearly bare save for a few leftover items.
With a final sale made to an elderly woman who wanted the last bunch of carrots, Logan began counting his earnings. He held a thick stack of bills in his hand. Out of sheer curiosity, he counted them right there. To his surprise, he had made more than he expected.
A rare sense of satisfaction settled over him. He surveyed the sparse remains of his stall which consisted of a few loose greens and a couple of root vegetables left behind. Things were looking up. Future profits seemed well within reach if this momentum kept up.
The sun had begun its slow descent. It painted the sky with warm orange and pink hues that reflected off the polished black metal of his car. Logan gathered what was left of his crops. He stowed the remaining produce carefully in the trunk of his muscle car. The market was winding down around him as vendors packed up their goods and customers trickled away. With a satisfied sigh, he shut the trunk with a soft thud and locked up for the day.
As he slid into the driver's seat, his stomach growled loudly. The gnawing hunger finally caught up with him. He realized he hadn't eaten all day except for that single slice of tomato. With his day's profits tucked safely in his jacket pocket, he decided to make a quick stop at the local corner shop before heading home. A little reward for a good day's work wouldn't hurt.
The corner shop sat on the edge of town. It was a relic squeezed between two modern buildings, but Logan didn't care about the architecture. He just needed food.
He parked the muscle car and stepped into the biting cold before pushing through the door. The bell above chimed softly. The air inside smelled of stale tobacco and old wood.
Logan grabbed a loaf of bread and a heavy stack of cheap deli meat from the cooler. He dropped them on the counter.
The cashier didn't even look up from her magazine at first.
"Back again, Osborne? Hope you're not looking to add to your tab."
"Cash this time," Logan said. He pulled the thick wad of bills from his jacket. "Clear the debt while you're at it. How much?"
She blinked, finally looking at him. Her skepticism vanished, replaced by mild shock. "You owe sixty-seven."
Logan peeled the bills off the stack and laid them on the counter along with enough to cover the groceries.
"Keep the change," he muttered.
He walked out with his brown paper bag before she could say thank you. He didn't need gratitude. He just needed a clean slate.
Back in the car, he tore into the bread and meat like a starving animal.
He washed it down with a lukewarm soda he'd grabbed, but the sugar just sat heavy in his stomach.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The food killed the hunger, but it didn't kill the noise in his head.
He needed something stronger.
Ten minutes later, Logan pulled up to Whisky on a Stake. The town's favorite watering hole looked unusually quiet tonight. The worn wooden sign creaked gently in the wind, illuminated by the dull glow of the streetlights.
Logan killed the engine. It was time for a real drink.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door. The familiar scent of whiskey, old leather, and floor polish welcomed him like an old friend. The dim lighting cast long shadows across the bar, and the low hum of quiet conversation filled the air.
"Oh, Ozzy! I haven't seen you in two weeks!"
Moe Horton, the owner, called out from behind the counter.
He was a mountain of a man, looking every bit the part of a bouncer who had decided to start pouring drinks instead of throwing people out. His broad chest strained against a leather vest worn over a rolled-up shirt, and a thick, bushy beard covered the lower half of his face, making his welcoming grin seem even wider.
"Yeah, it's been a while," Logan replied, settling onto his familiar barstool. The wood creaked under his weight, a sound he knew well. "Give me the usual."
"The usual? You've been gone so long I almost forgot what it is," Moe said with a playful smirk, his large hands already reaching for the bottle on the top shelf with practiced ease.
"It's only been two weeks," Logan said, raising an eyebrow.
"I know, I was joking. Come on, lighten up a little," Moe chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. He poured a generous measure of whiskey and slid the glass across the polished mahogany.
Logan lifted the glass to his lips. He took a slow sip, letting the amber liquid coat his throat. The burn was a welcome sensation after the long, freezing day at the market. It thawed him from the inside out.
As the warmth settled in his chest, movement across the room caught his attention.
At a table near the back, shrouded in shadow, sat Patrick Avide. The loudmouthed farmer from the market was leaning back in his chair, looking far more relaxed than he had earlier. He wasn't alone. A woman sat beside him, leaning in close. She was dressed in red, her outfit drawing more than a few eyes in the quiet bar.
Logan leaned toward Moe, lowering his voice. "Am I seeing things, or is that Patrick with a... hooker?"
Moe followed his gaze, scrubbing a glass with a rag. His expression was unimpressed. "Yep. Different one every day. Changes them like socks, so I've heard."
Logan let out a low, incredulous whistle. "I wonder what his wife thinks about that."
Moe didn't stop scrubbing. "Oh, the wife's fine with it. She participates too."
Logan choked on his drink. He slammed the glass down, coughing as the whiskey went down the wrong pipe. He wiped his mouth, his face twisting in genuine disgust.
"I didn't know Patrick was like that," Logan rasped, staring at the hypocrite in the corner. "Considering he keeps telling everyone he's a 'Man of God' and all that."
Moe shrugged, placing the clean glass on the rack. "Sunday morning is for God, Ozzy. Saturday night is for... whatever that is."
Logan stared at the corner table, his expression curdling. He took another long pull of whiskey, as if trying to wash the mental image out of his brain.
"I swear," Logan hissed, his voice low but sharp. "He likes to kiss crosses and talk about sins and God, but look at him. He embodies every single one of the Seven Deadly Sins."
Moe paused his cleaning, leaning his elbows on the bar with a cynical smirk. "Well, you know what they say. The louder they pray, the deeper the closet."
"He's not in a closet, Moe. He's in a sewer," Logan retorted. "Gluttony, Greed, Lust... he's collecting them like trophies."
He gestured vaguely with his glass toward Patrick's stout, round frame, his nose wrinkling in disgust.
"I can't believe that barrel on legs is into something like this," Logan muttered, gesturing vaguely with his glass toward Patrick's stout, round frame. "He can't even see his own dick, I bet. But that... that is just gross."
He shuddered, a genuine physical reaction. To Logan, who treated his body like a temple and a weapon, the idea of sloppy, transactional indulgence was repulsive.
Moe leaned against the back counter, his massive arms crossed over his chest, his beard twitching with a suppressed grin.
"Hey now, Ozzy... it's not nice to kink shame. different strokes for different folks, right?"
"Oh, please," Logan scoffed, slamming his glass down a little harder than intended. "You know what I think about this... carnal stuff. It's stupid and desperate."
Moe chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "I know, I know. You're a monk. A monk with a leather jacket and a drinking problem."
"I don't have a drinking problem," Logan corrected flatly. "I have a tolerance problem. Nothing works anymore."
Moe poured him another splash without being asked. "Maybe you just haven't met the right person to make you... less of a monk."
Logan stared at the amber liquid, the golden light of his dream flashing in his mind for a split second but snapped out of it.
"Besides," Logan continued, his voice dripping with disdain, "even if I did have someone, I wouldn't get... like this."
He gestured vaguely in Patrick's direction, his hand waving at the general concept of sloppy, public indulgence. His nose wrinkled as if he smelled rotten milk.
"Just... ugh."
Moe leaned his elbows on the bar, looking at Logan with an amused expression buried in his thick beard.
"You make it sound like a disease, Ozzy," Moe chuckled. " sometimes you act like you've never—"
Logan froze.
He turned his head slowly. The shadow of his hair fell over his eyes, but the glare underneath was unmistakable. It was sharp, cold, and promised violence if the sentence was finished.
Moe's grin vanished instantly. He cleared his throat, suddenly finding a spot on the counter that needed urgent polishing.
"Oh... Right," Moe mumbled, backing off. "Nothing wrong with that. Absolutely nothing."
Logan held the glare for another second before turning back to his drink.
"Exactly," Logan said, taking a sip. "Discipline, Moe. It separates us from the animals."
"Right. Discipline," Moe echoed, though he looked like he wanted to ask a dozen more questions but valued his life too much to try.
Moe arched a thick eyebrow, wiping down the counter with a rhythmic circular motion. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble.
"Speaking of Patrick... mind if I ask you something?"
"Go ahead," Logan replied, taking another long sip. The whiskey was doing its job, smoothing out the jagged edges of his mood.
"Did he offer you a gig? Like he's done with others?" Moe's tone was casual, but there was a flicker of genuine seriousness in his eyes.
Logan scoffed, the sound sharp in the quiet bar. "Yeah, he tried. I turned him down, and then he made it sound like I'd regret it. You know the type, said no one's ever refused him before, blah blah." He rolled his eyes, the memory of Patrick's red, puffy face already fading into irrelevance.
Moe's brow furrowed, the lines on his forehead deepening. "Doesn't that concern you, Ozzy?"
Logan shrugged, setting his empty glass down on the wood with a dull thud.
"Why should it? You think he's going to torch my land or something? He's got nothing to take from me that I can't replace."
Moe chuckled, but the sound lacked its usual mirth. There was a lingering tension in his voice. "Fair enough. But he's got guys working for him. Desperate guys. What if they decide to beat you up... or worse?"
Logan turned the glass in his hand, watching the light refract through the crystal. A dark amusement played on his lips.
"Moe, have you seen his 'security detail'?" Logan asked dryly. "If they fight as well as they look, I've got absolutely nothing to worry about."
Moe shook his head, a real laugh finally breaking through. "Alright, alright. Point taken. You're unbreakable."
He reached for the bottle again, pouring another round without asking.
"Putting Patrick aside then... how's life been lately?"
Logan sighed, the sound heavy and tired. He swirled the amber liquid, watching the vortex.
"As usual. You know the drill. Wake up, tend to my farm, sell, eat, drink, sleep. Repeat."
"Patrick and the other farmers seem to have a more... intriguing life, if you catch my drift," Moe suggested, tilting his head toward the woman in the red dress across the room. "Maybe you should try to branch out. Meet some new folks. You're younger than most of these fossils, after all."
Logan stared at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He looked young. Around twenty-six, maybe. But the eyes staring back were ancient.
He shook his head, swirling the whiskey one last time.
"I'm good, Moe," Logan said softly. "I've finally found the peace I've been craving. It's quiet... well, sort of. But I've got all I need. All I wanted."
He took a drink, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue. The golden warmth of the dream flashed in his mind again, bringing with it the memory of laughter and the hand on his shoulder. It was a painful reminder that "peace" and "happiness" weren't the same thing.
Moe leaned in closer again, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through the wood of the bar.
"You know, Ozzy... sometimes you've got to be more open to surprises. You keep building that fortress of yours, you might miss the one thing worth opening the gate for."
Logan took a slow, deliberate sip from his glass, letting the burn settle in his chest. He didn't look at Moe. He looked at the distorted reflection of the bar in the bottom of his glass.
"Maybe," Logan murmured, the word heavy on his tongue. "Or maybe I'm fine just the way things are. Quiet. Predictable."
Moe chuckled softly, shaking his head. The movement made his thick beard rustle against his vest.
"We'll see, my friend. We'll see."
Moe reached for the bottle again. Logan didn't stop him.
An hour later... or maybe three, time had become a slippery concept. Logan pushed himself off the barstool. The floor tilted dangerously to the left.
He had knocked back enough whiskey to make him dizzy, and finally, finally, the noise in his head had turned into a dull, manageable static.
"Put it on my tab," Logan slurred, waving a hand vaguely in Moe's direction.
"Get home safe, Ozzy," Moe called out, his voice sounding far away.
Logan stumbled out of the bar, his shoulder checking the heavy wooden door as he shoved it open.
The crisp night air of Inkdale hit him like a physical slap, stinging his face and filling his lungs with ice. It did little to clear his head. If anything, the sudden drop in temperature made the world spin faster.
He swayed on the sidewalk, his boots scraping against the uneven cobblestones. The streetlights overhead buzzed, their yellow glow stretching and warping in his vision.
"Just a dream," he muttered to the empty street, his words tangling together. "Stupid... golden... dream."
He took a step, caught his balance on a lamppost, and pushed off again, navigating the quiet streets with the grace of a ship in a storm. He just needed to get to the car. Or maybe walk. Walking seemed safer. Or harder. He couldn't decide.
He fumbled with his jacket, pulling it tighter against the biting cold, but something in the alley nearby caught his attention.
In the shadows of a narrow passage just ahead, a woman with raven-black hair struggled against a man dressed entirely in black. The man's face was hidden behind a ski mask, his figure towering over her. Her desperate cries pierced through the still night, dragging Logan out of his drunken haze like a bucket of ice water.
He squinted, swaying slightly as he tried to assess the situation through the fog of whiskey. It didn't take a genius to realize the man was attempting to drag her into a waiting vehicle. The masked figure sneered as he noticed Logan stumbling closer.
"He's wasted," the thug scoffed, tightening his grip on the woman's arm until she whimpered. "Forget him."
Logan sighed, rubbing his forehead as if the situation itself was giving him a headache. He knew better than to get involved. He was drunk, tired, and already regretting tomorrow morning. But something about the woman's terrified eyes that were wide and pleading, struck a chord.
Without thinking too hard about it, Logan shuffled closer.
"Look," he began, his words slurring slightly. "I'm not trying to play the hero here, and I'd rather not get involved... but could you just leave her alone? It's in everyone's best interest."
The masked man's eyes narrowed, irritation creeping into his voice. "Get lost, hobo."
Logan rolled his eyes, his patience thinning.
"Man, I swear, I'll definitely regret this in the morning," he muttered to himself, clenching his fists. Even in his impaired state, he could feel the familiar rush of adrenaline trying to push through the alcohol.
He took a shaky step forward. The masked man released a low chuckle, loosening his grip on the woman slightly to mock Logan's attempt at intervention.
"Go home, old man. Before you embarrass yourself."
Summoning what little coordination he had left, Logan swung a clumsy, telegraphed punch at the kidnapper's chin. The masked man dodged easily, smirking. He retaliated swiftly, landing a brutal punch to Logan's gut.
A searing pain shot through Logan's chest, knocking the wind out of him. He crumpled to his knees, his vision blurring, just in time to see three more shadowy figures step out of a black van parked deeper in the alley. Each one wore a mask.
"Fuck," Logan muttered, struggling to his feet, his body protesting with every movement.
The men converged on him, their intentions clear. They smelled blood. The first attacker lunged forward, a switchblade flashing in the moonlight. He thrust the knife deep into Logan's back, burying it to the hilt.
Logan didn't scream. He didn't even fall. He just groaned, annoyed.
"My reflexes aren't what they used to be," Logan remarked casually.
He reached over his shoulder, his joints popping, and grabbed the handle. With a wet, sickening slide, he effortlessly pulled the blade from his own back. He looked at the bloody steel with an expression of mild irritation, as if he'd just stepped in a puddle.
The men froze, recoiling in shock. Their initial confidence shattered. One of them, panicking, pulled out a handgun.
Without hesitation, he fired.
BANG.
The bullet struck Logan squarely in the chest. The impact lifted him off his feet and sent him sprawling onto the pavement, flat on his back.
Blood pooled beneath him, dark and thick on the cold stone. The woman gasped, a sound of pure horror echoing through the alley.
The masked men let out breathy laughs of relief. They turned their attention back to her, their sinister grins returning beneath the masks. They began closing in, stepping over Logan's lifeless body.
"Grab her," the leader hissed.
But before they could touch her, a sound stopped them.
A deep sigh.
Logan sat up. Smoke and steam from his overheated metabolism rose from the hole in his chest as the skin knitted itself back together in seconds. He stood up, his expression calm, sober, and terrifyingly dangerous.
The four assailants hesitated, their bravado crumbling into dust.
"That's gonna leave a mark," Logan quipped, cracking his neck with a loud pop.
In a blur of motion, he lunged. He grabbed the first two men by the backs of their heads. With a roar of effort, he slammed them together.
CRACK.
It was the sound of a brutal, final impact. Their skulls collided with bone-shattering force, and they dropped to the ground instantly, their bodies crumpling like ragdolls.
The remaining two assailants, now fully aware of the monster standing before them, scrambled in panic. They made a desperate dash for the van, their boots slipping on the wet pavement.
But Logan was faster. He was a blur of motion, intercepting the first runner before he even reached the bumper. Logan's hand became a spear, plunging into the man's chest with terrifying ease. He tore the heart out in one wet, fluid motion. The man's scream was cut short, gargled in blood, as his lifeless body collapsed at Logan's feet.
The last kidnapper, drenched in terror, backed away. His breath came in ragged gasps, white puffs of steam in the cold air. He stumbled, shaking uncontrollably, his eyes wide with disbelief as he stared at the carnage around him.
"What... what are you?!" he choked, his voice trembling.
Logan looked up. His dark brown eyes shifted, the irises flooding with color until they were a mesmerizing, glowing crimson. They burned with an otherworldly intensity in the dark alley.
He advanced, unhurried and cold. The kidnapper was frozen in place, paralyzed by a primal fear that locked his muscles.
With a swift motion, Logan reached out. His hand sliced cleanly across the man's throat, fingernails acting like scalpels. Blood sprayed out in a dark arc, painting the brick wall. As the kidnapper gurgled his last breath, his wide eyes reflecting only the red of Logan's gaze, Logan followed through. He finished the job with a final, decisive strike to the chest, watching as the man's life drained away in silence.
The alley fell quiet.
Then, the rain started. A sudden, heavy downpour that began to wash the blood into the gutters.
The only sound left was the heavy breathing of the woman. She stood frozen against the wall, her eyes wide, locked on Logan. She was trembling so violently she looked like she might shatter.
"You will not remember any of this," Logan said, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with a strange power.
"W-What?" she stammered, unable to look away from the bodies. "Oh god, the blood..."
Logan turned to her completely. He stepped closer, ignoring the rain soaking his jacket.
"Look at me," he commanded.
She looked. The moment her terrified eyes met his glowing crimson ones, her pupils dilated. It was as if a fog had descended over her mind, wiping the slate clean. Her body swayed, her knees buckled, and she collapsed into unconsciousness, slumping against the cold alley wall.
Logan caught her before she hit the ground, lowering her gently.
He sighed, the red fading from his eyes, returning to a muddy brown. He looked around at the massacre. "What a mess," he muttered.
He knelt down to inspect the last man he had killed. He ripped the mask off the corpse. Beneath the blood and grime, a strange symbol stitched into the fabric caught his eye it had a crude, white deer skull.
"A deer skull?" Logan mused aloud, tracing the stitching. "Are they part of some clan that hunts deer... and attacks humans or what?"
His mind raced with the implications. Could they be poachers? Cultists? but he knew he didn't have time to dwell on it. The police, or anyone else might be around.
"I better hurry."
Logan hoisted the unconscious woman over his shoulder effortlessly. He carried her back toward the rear exit of the bar, carefully placing her against the side of the building under an awning. He found an empty whiskey bottle in a nearby dumpster and slipped it into her limp hand, arranging her body to look like she had simply passed out from a good night.
"Sleep it off," he whispered.
Satisfied with the illusion, he returned to the alley. He retrieved a folded, heavy-duty tarp bag from his inner jacket pocket.
He moved quickly. He dragged the lifeless bodies into the bag one by one. The weight of four grown men was nothing to him. He packed them in with grim efficiency, zipping the heavy material closed.
He hoisted the bulging bag over his shoulder and made his way to his sleek black car, popping the trunk. He dumped the cargo inside, the suspension barely dipping.
The ride home was a blur. His mind was on autopilot, focused only on the cleanup.
Once back at home, Logan drove around the back, avoiding any prying eyes. He carried the bag down to the basement, past the crates of vegetables and the smell of earth.
He walked to the far wall, where a row of heavy wooden boards looked like a structural support. He pulled them aside, revealing the steel doors of several industrial refrigerators.
Logan grimaced, dragging the bag inside the cold, sterile light of the freezer.
"Back to the old routine," he muttered, closing the door on the dead.
Logan paused, wiping his hands on a rag. The image of the white deer skull stitched into the black fabric of the mask flashed in his mind again. It was crude, almost tribal. It was a loose thread in a tapestry he didn't care to weave, but it nagged at him nonetheless.
"Later," he whispered to the cold air. He slammed the heavy steel door shut, locking the dead away.
With the bodies taken care of, Logan climbed to the rooftop of his house. He needed air.
He lay down on the cool, angled shingles, staring up at the sky. The clouds had parted after the rain, leaving the stars exposed and distant, indifferent pinpricks of light cutting through the void. The crisp night air helped clear his mind, the lingering adrenaline from the alley slowly leaching out of his muscles.
For hours, he remained there, a dark silhouette against the moon. His thoughts wandered over the night's chaotic events. The masked attackers. The strange symbol. The woman with the terrified eyes. His usual routine had been violently disrupted. He wasn't sure if that was a nuisance or a relief.
Just as he began to drift into a tranquil state, the silence broke.
A wail rose from the valley below and getting closer. Logan sat up, his eyes snapping open.
Down in the town, a procession of police cars sped through the quiet streets of Inkdale. Their sirens pierced the still night, and their blue and red lights painted the sleeping houses in frantic, strobing colors.
Logan watched them for a second, calculating their trajectory. They weren't heading to the station. They were heading to the outskirts.
"Curiosity killed the cat," he muttered, standing up and dusting off his jeans. "But satisfaction brought it back."
He descended from the rooftop, moving with the agility of a man half his age. Minutes later, the engine of his muscle car purred to life, a deep growl that rivaled the sirens. He slid into gear and followed the trail of noise.
When he finally arrived, he kept his distance. He parked the black car in the shadows of an old oak tree, the engine ticking as it cooled.
He was on the edge of the woods, near the old mining road. The area was already cordoned off with yellow tape that fluttered violently in the wind. Police officers moved swiftly, their flashlights cutting beams through the darkness. Some spoke in hushed, urgent tones; others were busy directing confused onlookers away.
The scene was bathed in the harsh red-and-blue glow of the cruisers, casting eerie, dancing shadows across the wet ground.
Logan leaned against the hood of his car, crossing his arms. He watched silently, his eyes scanning the chaos. The officers' expressions were grim. This wasn't a domestic dispute or a drunk driver. This was something serious. Something far more disturbing than the usual minor crimes that plagued this sleepy town.
"I didn't know this town could be quite so entertaining," Logan muttered to himself.