| Echoes of the Past

༺ The Fractured City V ༻

The rain had not relented. It hammered against the cracked and crumbling buildings, tracing thin, winding rivers of filth down the walls. The streetlamps, flickering and dull, cast an eerie, sickly glow over the desolate roadside. The people Viktor passed—hunched figures in tattered coats, their faces hollow with exhaustion—paid him no mind. They were too lost in their own struggles to care for another man wandering through the city's decay.

The pavement was uneven, riddled with potholes filled with murky water and strewn with debris. The stench of damp rot mixed with the acrid smoke wafting from burning trash cans, the only source of warmth for those too poor to afford shelter. The city had long since abandoned these streets. No law, no order—only the forgotten and the desperate.

Viktor pulled his coat tighter around him as he walked, his boots splashing through puddles. His thoughts were as heavy as the storm above. The events of the night played over in his mind—Rowan's voice, calm yet unnerving, pressing him into a corner, forcing the truth from his lips. The docks. The warehouse. He had known that taking even a glimpse would be dangerous, but he hadn't expected it to spiral like this.

And Elias…

Viktor clenched his fists as the image of the doctor surfaced in his mind. The city had loved Elias Verholt, a man who had never hesitated to help the sick and the wounded, no matter their background. But his kindness had led him to a fate he did not deserve. The organization had mistakenly believed he was the one who had peeked where he shouldn't have, and for that, they had ended his life without a second thought. Viktor had sealed his fate without realizing it.

He exhaled sharply and forced the thought away. It was done. He couldn't change the past.

A rusted sign creaked above him, swaying with the wind. The letters, barely legible, marked the entrance of a bar barely holding itself together. The wooden frame of the door was warped, the windows riddled with holes—scars of past brawls and gunfire. It was the kind of place that reeked of desperation, where men drank to forget rather than to enjoy.

Viktor stepped inside.

The air was thick with the scent of old alcohol and sweat. Dim lighting barely reached the corners of the room, leaving much of the space swallowed in shadow. A few patrons sat hunched over their drinks, their gazes either distant or wary, lost in their own troubles. No one acknowledged him.

The bartender, a rough-looking man with graying stubble and tired eyes, barely glanced up as Viktor took a seat.

"What do you want?" the bartender asked, his voice gruff.

Viktor leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the counter. "Your choice."

The bartender studied him for a moment before nodding. Without another word, he reached for a bottle—something strong, judging by the dust settled on its glass—and poured a drink into a thick, worn mug. He slid it across the counter with enough force that the liquid almost spilled over the rim, swaying from side to side.

Viktor caught the mug, took a sip. It was sharp, bitter, but not bad.

The silence stretched between them, filled only by the occasional murmur of conversation in the background. The bartender wiped down the counter absentmindedly, his gaze lingering on Viktor, as if sizing him up.

"You look like a man with regrets," the bartender finally said.

Viktor let out a short, dry chuckle. "Isn't everyone?"

The bartender smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. He leaned forward slightly, his fingers tapping against the wood. "Regret's a funny thing," he muttered. "You drink to forget it, but it always comes crawling back."

Viktor glanced at him. "Speaking from experience?"

The bartender exhaled through his nose, wiping his hands on a rag before tossing it over his shoulder. "I used to be a mercenary." His voice was quiet, but steady. "Spent years fighting wars that weren't mine. Killed people I didn't know. All for a payday."

Viktor didn't reply, but he listened.

"One day, I took a job—simple hit, nothing new. Or so I thought." The bartender's fingers curled slightly against the counter. "Turned out, I was sent after the wrong man. An innocent. Didn't know until after I pulled the damn trigger."

A pause. The bartender stared at nothing in particular, his expression unreadable.

"I left after that," he continued. "Walked away. Thought I could just disappear, start over. But you don't get to erase the past. It sticks to you, no matter how much you drink, no matter how much you tell yourself it wasn't your fault." He finally looked at Viktor, his gaze sharp. "But you can choose what you do next."

Viktor remained silent.

The bartender leaned back, pouring himself a drink before raising it slightly in Viktor's direction. "So," he said, voice lighter now, "if you've got regrets, best start thinking about what comes after."

Viktor stared down at his mug.

The past would never leave him. He had seen too much, done too much. The mistakes he had made could not be undone. But what he did next—that was still in his hands.

He finished his drink and stood. The bartender didn't ask where he was going. He simply nodded, as if he already knew.

Viktor stepped back into the rain.

His feet carried him toward the docks.