The smell of stale cigarettes hit me first. I opened my eyes to someone with brown eyes staring at me, but then realized it was a crackled bathroom mirror. Dark circles still stood out on my face but something had changed. My hair was all over the place and mud splattered my black tank top. I leaned forward with my hands braced on the chipped porcelain sink, peering at my face, trying to figure it out. Tiny scratches covered my arms and on my left one - the mark.

Deep green starting from the round point where the poison had started. The roots that traced over the back of my hand and through my fingertips remained. Another darted up my forearm, and the tip blossomed into jagged spikes on my bicep.

Somehow it was still there. What the heck? Yet, the hammer was gone. The cut on my shin no longer bled and the patch of blood on my jeans was dry. I needed to get that looked at, especially since the jeans were stuck to the cut. It'd hurt pretty bad once I detached it. For the moment, I let it be. The dirty bathroom was not the place to clean a cut.

A stall with an out-of-order sign was behind me, and the rest of the bathroom was empty. Shaking my head, I moved to exit the small room. Then my head whipped back toward the mirror.

Level 2 hovered over my head.

My jaw dropped, and I blinked a few times, before taking a breath and heading back to the bar. The tail end of the song cut off just as I cracked the door. Everyone in the bar stared at me as I exited the bathroom.

Bob stood behind the bar, and he nodded at me. He motioned to the drink still on the counter, whiskey on the rocks. The ice cube didn't even look melted. The level 21 older guy looked relieved, and he slammed his drink, then set his glass on the counter. His dark eyes darted over me, pausing first on my shin, then on the mark trailing up my arm.

"Welcome to the Seattle Divers," he said. A cheer went up around the room as others took shots. The jukebox shook, drawing my attention. Something printed out of a narrow slot, and I hurried across the space to grab it. I flipped it over.

"Huh," I let out. A picture of the cover of the album was on the other-side.

"It's a sticker of the cover," said the guy. "You can add it to the wall or bar. Your dad had a collection of ‘em, they’re at the end of the bar."

I moved closer to the bar and my drink, which I picked up in my other hand. I took a sip, letting the smooth flavor coat my mouth before swallowing. Somehow I'd completed the dungeon, well, dive.

Bob motioned to the end of the bar closest to the bathroom. "His collection is there."

I slid down the bar, ignoring all the talking that picked up in the room. At the end was my dad's name carved into the top. Under it rested a ton of stickers, many different songs. From classic rock, to kids’ songs, and even country. The genres were all over the place, and I counted them slowly. Over twenty stickers were under his name. He must have gained a few levels after I saw him that night, though he made me promise to not speak of the bar to Mom. He must have dived frequently.

"My name's Daniel," said the guy.

This time I turned to face him, the sticker still clutched in my fingers. "Nice to meet you, Daniel."

"Since you survived, I thought I'd offer an invitation to train with us." He motioned to a group of guys in the far corner booth. With the dim lighting it was hard to make out their levels. "We get together and keep in the best shape possible. Weight lifting, hand to hand combat - that sort of thing."

"Does it help?" I asked. My thoughts went back to the race in between the tall trees. I’d been lucky I hadn’t actually needed to fight anything. Only outrace the chirping fucks.

"It can. The better shape you’re in, the better your stats are inside, if stats are a thing," he said. "Come over and chat with us for a bit. It can't hurt. Plus, Maple can look at your leg. He's premed and has a first aid kit with him."

I nodded, but didn't turn away from the bar.

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"You should add it to a wall or the counter," said Bob. "Before you lose it."

"What’s it for?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes it can help, but you can't take it outside the bar.”

I swallowed and took another sip of the whiskey. Daniel moved toward the far booth, giving me some space. "What about the money?" I asked, this time my voice lower.

Bob smirked. "Already deposited in your bank account. You'll get a W-2 at year end with your total." He continued to polish the drink glass in his hand. "Each time you dive, the same thing will happen, though it’s $10,000 per level of song you complete. So if you complete a level 2 song, you get $20,000."

"Woah," I held up a hand. "I don't plan on doing any more dives."

He shrugged. "Just explaining how it works."

"Alex, let Maple look at your leg," called Daniel. His voice reminded me of my dad’s, with a slightly stern undertone.

I finished the glass and left it on the counter. Unease filtered through me again and I glanced at the sticker in my hand. I pointed to a spot a few inches under the area where my dad's stickers were, and Bob nodded. I peeled the back off and stuck it to the top of the counter, right where I’d indicated. For a moment it stayed above the clear coat, then slowly, like I was dreaming, it sank in. I blinked, and my name sat above it, carved into the wood like it'd always been there.

Shaking my head, I crossed the bar to the corner booth. A pendant light hung in the center of the round wooden table. Two golden records hung on the walls over the booth. An open first aid kit sat on top of the table, and a tall guy with glasses pulled a few objects out. They’d pulled a chair up to face the end of the booth.

"Hey, I'm Maple," said the tall guy, holding out his hand. Over his head floated level 5.

I shook his hand and sat down in the chair. He patted the end of the booth. "Put your foot up here and let's look at your leg. We don't want it getting infected."

"So do you patch everyone up after dives?"

The guys in the booth chuckled. "He patches me up all the time," said the guy next to Maple. He had bright blue eyes that almost glittered in the dim light. "I'm Jason." Level 8 floated above him. He pointed to the other guy next to him. "This is Chris. He's in a mood ‘cause he planned on diving tonight."

Chris was level 3, and he tried to wipe a grumpy look off his face.

"Do you think we can stretch your pants over your shin, or can I cut the leg?" asked Maple.

It took a few seconds for what he said to catch up to me. "Cut up the jeans. I can sew them back together later."

He pulled out a pair of scissors and cut up the inner seam of my jeans. He carefully didn't yank on it as he moved the scissors. "This might hurt," he said. He waited for me to nod, then he peeled the jeans upward. The sensation of the scab getting yanked off made me grit my teeth. "This isn't too bad. One more sting." He put something cool over it while I stared at the ceiling, whispering numbers under my breath. "It just needs some butterfly bandaids, but it should heal up nicely. What cut you anyway?"

I felt some tugging but didn't look at my leg. "A branch. It was a race through the jungle with little dinosaurs from a movie."

"Is that where the tattoo came from?" asked Jason. "You weren't rocking it before you went in."

"No, that's a trophy," said Daniel. "Some dives give them to you."

"Yeah, it was poison - the race was for the cure." I glanced down at my leg and saw that Maple had cleaned the gash out and pulled it shut. He kept the jeans pulled back. "Thanks."

"You’re welcome. Thanks for taking that dive. I don't think any of us are fast. It could have done one of us in." Each of them nodded, including Chris.

"I was lucky," I said, straightening up in the chair. "So what's the Seattle Divers?"

"Just this group," said Daniel. "Like I said, we all train together. Some daily, others less, but it’ll give you a leg up when you dive. You’re welcome to join us."

"I don't really plan on doing more dives," I said. "I needed some cash to pay for tuition while things settled with my dad’s estate and finances."

Daniel and Jason shared a look, exchanging a meaningful glance. Unease crept up the back of my neck.

"What aren't you saying?" I asked. This time my voice was firm, needing an answer.

"Most people can't walk away," said Daniel. His eyebrows pulled together, and he hesitated before he continued. "It's almost like a drug. Hopefully, you’re good to go." He shrugged and set a business card on the table. "That's the gym I own. Stop by before 6pm. We all gather here around then."

My father's voice making my promise to never come back to the bar echoed through my head. Along with the look on his face when I'd walked into the bar that first time. The long conversation we’d had in his car, and the flashes of anger when I acted like this was all a joke. The warning to stay away that I'd ignored.

I leaned forward and picked up the card. "Thanks, maybe I'll stop by." I stood up and folded the leg on my jeans down. "I need to grab some food and get some studying in. Thanks again, Maple." I turned to leave the bar, and my eyes landed on the jukebox before continuing to the exit. The mark on my left hand tingled, and I ran my fingers over it. Its deep green color suited me. Even so, somehow I'd need to hide it. The door beckoned, and I headed in that direction, slipping the card in my back pocket.

Getting in shape was always a good thing, and the guys seemed nice. Not like I'd need to dive again just because I trained with them… right?