When the lights go out in a normal bar, people cheer. It’s a primal reaction. It’s the sound of social inhibition dropping another notch. Someone usually woos, someone else drops a glass, and the bartender flips a breaker switch while grumbling about the wiring.
But nobody cheered at The Cortex Club.
The silence was instant. Absolute. It wasn’t just that the music stopped; it was like the audio track of the world had been muted. No clinking glasses. No laughter from the corner booth. No hum from the refrigerator.
Just the sound of my own heart trying to punch its way through my ribs.
"Desi?" I whispered. My voice sounded too loud in the dead air. "Greg?"
"I’m here," Desi’s voice came from the dark, tight and trembling. "I’m holding a bottle, Leo. If you touch me, I’m swinging it."
"Please do not weaponize the glassware," I said, reaching out blindly. My hands brushed against the wet, sticky surface of the table. "Stay calm. This is likely just a blown fuse. The electrical grid in this neighborhood is notoriously unstable. I’ve been meaning to write a letter to the city council about it."
I was lying. I knew I was lying. The handwriting on that napkin was still burned into my retinas. My handwriting.
Then, the emergency lights kicked on.
They weren't the standard safety white lights you see in office buildings. They were red. Deep, darkroom red. They bathed the entire bar in the color of a developing bruise. Shadows stretched out long and sharp, twisting against the walls.
I blinked, waiting for my eyes to adjust.
"Okay," I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Emergency power. That’s... that’s a safety protocol. That’s good."
I looked around the room to reassure the other patrons. I wanted to tell the couple in the corner that everything was fine. I wanted to tell the guy in the plaid shirt near the jukebox to stop hogging the machine.
I froze.
The booth in the corner was empty. A half-finished martini sat on the table, the olive still skewered on a toothpick, but the woman who had been drinking it was gone.
I spun around. The guy in the plaid shirt? Gone. The group of college kids doing shots by the dartboard? Gone.
The bar stools were empty. The floor was empty.
The "Tourists"—the background noise, the extras in our movie—had vanished. It wasn't like they had left the building. There hadn't been enough time. They had simply ceased to exist.
"Leo," Desi whimpered. She was standing on top of the booth seat, her back pressed against the wall. Under the red light, her leather jacket looked like dried blood. "Where did everyone go?"
"They... they must have evacuated," I stammered, adjusting my glasses. They were sliding down my nose because of the sweat. "Efficiently. Very efficiently."
"In three seconds?" Desi snapped. "Without making a sound?"
"Maybe they were never really here," Greg said.
I looked down. Greg was still sitting at the table. He hadn't moved. The red light made the shadows under his eyes look like war paint. He was staring into the puddle of water on the table—the "tear" water—which was now glowing crimson.
"Don't be metaphysical, Greg," I said, though my stomach was doing backflips. "People don't just disappear. That violates the law of conservation of mass."
"We're the only ones left," Greg said softly. He traced a circle in the water with his finger. "Just the regulars. Just the... essentials."
I looked at the bar. The Bartender was still there. They were standing perfectly still in the shadows, polishing a glass. They didn't look at us. They looked like a statue placed there to remind us of something we wanted to forget.
"I don't like this vibe," Desi said, her voice rising in pitch. She jumped down from the booth, splashing water onto my pants. "This isn't a vibe. This is a horror movie. I'm leaving."
"Desi, wait," I said, holding up a hand. "We should assess the situation before—"
"Assess this!" She gave me the finger, grabbed her purse, and bolted for the front door.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.