The silence that followed my outburst was heavier than Greg.
The backward music from the jukebox cut out abruptly, leaving only the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of my own ragged breathing. The air in The Cortex Club had changed. It wasn't just the tremor. The air pressure had dropped. You know that feeling right before a thunderstorm breaks, when the atmosphere turns into a wet wool blanket wrapped around your face? It was like that.
"You're hysterical," Desi said. She didn't look at me. She was staring at her boots, tracing the scuff marks with her eyes. "You need a Xanax, Leo. Or a scotch. Or a lobotomy."
"I am analyzing the available data," I said, smoothing the wrinkles in my suit jacket. My hands were shaking. I hate it when my hands shake. It ruins my penmanship. "Fact: Adam is missing. Fact: The infrastructure of this establishment is failing. Fact: That song was playing in reverse. Do you know the statistical probability of a digital jukebox malfunction resulting in a perfect retrograde audio playback? It’s zero. It’s impossible."
"Greg," Desi kicked him under the table. "Tell him he's crazy."
Greg didn't answer immediately. He was staring at the center of the table. His eyes were glazed over, like he was watching a movie that was projected on the inside of his eyelids.
"It feels... low," Greg mumbled. His voice vibrated through the wood of the table, making my perfectly arranged coasters shiver. "The floor. It feels like we're sinking."
"We are not sinking," I snapped, though I casually checked the floorboards just to be sure. "We are waiting. We are sticking to the plan. We are going to have a calm, rational intervention for Adam’s chronic tardiness when he walks through that door."
Plip.
A single drop of liquid landed squarely on the bridge of my nose.
I flinched, wiping it away. "Great. Wonderful. Now the HVAC system is leaking. I told the management six months ago that the condensation coils were suboptimal."
I looked up. The ceiling of The Cortex Club is usually pressed tin, painted a dark, smoky red. But now, right above our table, the paint was bubbling. It looked like a blister ready to pop. A dark, wet stain was spreading outward, resembling a Rorschach test that definitely meant something bad.
Plip.
Another drop. This one hit my notebook. It landed right on the blueprint I’d been sketching for a theoretical gazebo. The ink bled instantly, turning my crisp architectural lines into a blue smudge.
"Hey!" I pulled the notebook away, shielding it with my body. "This is structural damage! Bartender! We have a situation!"
The Bartender didn't move. They were busy polishing a glass that was already clean, their rhythm slow and hypnotic.
"Leave them alone," Greg said softly. "They can't fix it."
"Why not?" I demanded, grabbing a napkin to dab at my ruined drawing.
"Because it’s not a leak," Greg sighed. He rested his chin in his hand, his elbow sinking another inch into the table. "It’s... Her."
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.