The neon sign buzzed and sputtered like it was reconsidering its life choices, caught in the throes of some existential crisis. Last Call wasn’t just the name slapped on the fading awning outside—it was a grim prophecy, an unspoken promise that this place would be the final stop before oblivion for more than a few sorry souls. It was a miracle the bar was still standing at all, held together by cheap whiskey, bad decisions, and the sheer bullheaded determination of Dante, who had long since stopped expecting the universe to cut him a break. Not that he was the type to complain. Complaining required energy, and he was already running on fumes.

Dante wasn’t a man of grand ambitions. Once upon a time, maybe, but life had a way of grinding that nonsense out of a person. These days, his dreams were small, practical things: a bar that broke even, a lock on the door that didn’t stick, a Friday night where he didn’t have to throw someone out by the collar. Even those felt like long shots most of the time. Not that he ever let it show. Dante had perfected the art of looking like a man who still had control over his life, even if the universe had long since bet against him. It was all about posture—leaning just right against the bar, one rag slung over his shoulder like he gave a damn, a look that said, Yeah, I see the storm coming. No, I don’t plan on moving.

He had a face that life had left fingerprints all over—sharp angles, tired eyes, a perpetual shadow of stubble that he couldn’t be bothered to shave. His knuckles had stories, too, most of them ending with “and that’s why you don’t ask questions”. He’d spent years collecting reasons to keep his mouth shut and even longer learning when to ignore the nagging voice that suggested he might still have a conscience buried under all that cigarette ash and regret. Experience had taught him that people didn’t end up at Last Call because they were doing well. No one stumbled through those doors with a bright future and a five-year plan. No, they came in looking for escape—sometimes from the city, sometimes from themselves. Dante didn’t judge. He just poured the drinks.

Still, he wasn’t a complete bastard. Not yet, anyway. Maybe he was jaded, maybe he didn’t care as much as he should, but he hadn’t fully bought into the idea that the world was just a meat grinder and everybody was already halfway through. He had his rules. You paid your tab, you didn’t start trouble, and if you were going to drink yourself into a stupor, you did it quietly. More importantly, if you came in bleeding, you damn well better not do it on his floor. He might’ve been holding onto this place by sheer spite, but that didn’t mean he wanted to mop up someone else’s bad decisions. Not again.

Tonight, though—tonight felt different. Or maybe that was just exhaustion whispering in his ear, making the shadows seem a little longer, the silence a little heavier. Dante ran a rag across the counter, not because it needed cleaning—God knew the regulars had long since abandoned any standards—but because it gave his hands something to do. Something to distract him from the mounting pile of unpaid bills, the landlord’s increasingly impatient voicemails, and the fact that his most reliable customer was a guy who, by all rights, should’ve been limping around on prosthetic legs by now, given how many times he’d dodged his bookie’s patience.

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Then, as if summoned by some cruel cosmic joke, the door groaned open, and a gust of bitter, city-stained wind slashed through the bar. Dante barely looked up. He’d seen it all before—another deadbeat, another poor bastard with a haunted look in their eyes, chasing one last drink before the city swallowed them whole.

And then the guy collapsed.

The rag slipped from Dante’s fingers, landing with an unceremonious plop on the sticky floor. The man was a disaster. Blood streaked his face, smeared in haphazard patterns that suggested he’d either taken one hell of a beating or gone a few rounds with the wrong end of a knife. His coat, soaked and clinging to his frame like a second skin, barely did anything to hide the spreading stain on his side. He clutched at the wound like he could physically hold himself together through sheer willpower alone. His breathing was ragged, wet—like an engine with a cracked piston, choking on its own exhaust.

Dante had seen bad nights before. Hell, he’d lived through more than a few himself—nights where the world came swinging with both fists, where the taste of blood and whiskey blurred together, where you hit the pavement and had to decide whether to get back up or just lie there and let the city finish what it started. He’d seen men stagger into Last Call with black eyes and busted lips, seen them cradle broken ribs like they were holding onto the last bit of dignity they had left. But this? This was different. This wasn’t a bar fight gone sideways or some dumbass who mouthed off to the wrong guy. This was the kind of hurt that came with intent. The kind that didn’t leave survivors.

The man tried to move, but his legs didn’t get the memo. His hand slipped against the floor, smearing red across the already-questionable tile. His mouth worked around words that never made it past his lips, half-formed syllables drowning in the struggle to stay conscious. Dante had seen that look before—the distant, glassy-eyed stare of a man standing at the edge of a long, dark drop, trying to decide whether to fall. For a brief, bitter second, Dante wondered if he should let him. Not out of cruelty, not out of malice, but because he understood what waited on the other side. Some fights weren’t worth finishing. Some roads only led to worse places.

But the part of Dante that still gave a damn—the part he kept trying to kill off with cheap bourbon and bad decisions—wouldn’t let it slide. His jaw tightened, and he swore under his breath. If this guy was going to die, he wasn’t going to do it here, bleeding out between a cracked barstool and a floor that still smelled like last night’s whiskey. With a sigh that felt heavier than it should have, Dante reached for the man’s shoulder, giving him a shake that was just shy of rough. “Hey,” he muttered, voice low and steady. “You still in there, or am I talking to a corpse?”

Dante exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to just turn away. This wasn’t his problem. It didn’t have to be his problem. He could ignore it, pretend he never saw a damn thing, let someone else handle it. Call an ambulance. Or don’t. Either way, the city would keep spinning, indifferent as ever.

But instead, he muttered a curse under his breath and stepped around the bar.

“Jesus Christ,” he grumbled, crouching down. “You better not bleed out on my floor. I just mopped.”