Chapter 2: The High Priestess

Leo left his suitcase by the stool but took the rye. The walk to the back of the bar felt like moving underwater. The heavy bass of the jukebox faded, replaced by the hum of the ice machine and the low murmur of private conversations.

The back corner was framed by two exposed, load-bearing brick columns. Tucked between them was a semi-circular vinyl booth held together by black duct tape.

She was sitting dead center.

She didn't look like she belonged in a dive bar, but she didn't look like she belonged anywhere else, either. Sharp silver hair cut in a severe bob. A heavy, dark velvet blazer. She wasn't looking at her phone. She wasn't fidgeting. She sat in absolute, terrifying stillness, one hand resting flat on the table next to a glass of dark red wine.

Leo stood at the edge of the booth. He felt entirely exposed.

"Silas sent me," Leo said. His voice cracked slightly.

She didn't blink. Her eyes were a pale, washed-out blue, but they felt impossibly heavy. Like they were reading the serial numbers off his soul.

"Silas likes to throw people into the deep end," she said. Her voice was barely a whisper, yet it cut perfectly through the ambient noise of the room. "Sit."

Leo slid into the opposite side of the booth. The cold vinyl squeaked. He put his glass down.

"He wrote 'Ask Her' on a napkin," Leo explained, suddenly feeling like a stupid kid holding a treasure map. "So. I'm asking."

"Asking what?"

"I don't know. What I should do next, I guess. I just walked out on a five-year relationship. I have fifty bucks. I don't know where I'm sleeping tonight."

The woman took a slow sip of her wine. She didn't offer a sympathetic tilt of the head. She didn't offer a platitude.

"You aren't asking for directions," she said flatly. "You're asking for permission."

Leo stiffened. "Permission for what?"

"To be a disaster." She leaned forward slightly. The shadows in the booth seemed to bend with her. "You spent five years shrinking yourself to fit into a box someone else bought. You were quiet. You were clean. You paid the bills on time and you swallowed your arguments."

Leo stared at her. His pulse started hammering in his throat.

"You want me to tell you what to do so you can just follow another set of rules," she continued, her pale eyes locking him in place. "That isn't how this works. I don't give answers. I just show you what you're pretending not to know."

She reached across the scarred table and tapped the back of his left hand. Right on the faint, pale indentation on his ring finger where a silver band had sat until about an hour ago.

"You didn't leave because you were scared," she whispered. "You left because you were finally bored. Admit it."

The truth of it hit Leo so hard he actually gasped. It wasn't some grand tragedy. It wasn't a dramatic, cinematic escape. He was just painfully, violently bored of his own life.

He slumped back against the booth, letting out a breath he felt like he'd been holding since 2021.

"Yeah," Leo breathed, staring at the ceiling tiles. "God. I was suffocating."

The woman smiled. It was a small, knowing thing.

"Good," she said, leaning back into the shadows. "Now you can actually start." She tipped her chin toward the kitchen double doors swinging open on the other side of the room. "Go get something to eat. You're shaking."

Leo looked over his shoulder. When he turned back to say thank you, she was already looking past him, staring out into the crowd, completely finished with the interaction.