The diner’s neon sign sputtered and buzzed like an old drunk trying to remember the words to a familiar tune. “Mabel’s.” The bell above the door jangled as I stepped inside, the noise too cheery for the grimy surroundings. The air was thick with burnt coffee, stale cigarette smoke, and enough grease to lube a tank—a sharp, almost nostalgic smell that cut through the dullness that had taken over my senses since the change. Maybe the Nightstone had something to do with that. I wasn’t about to start hoping.

I scanned the room, my eyes catching the reflection of flickering neon in a streaked window. No sign of Bart yet. I moved further inside, the vinyl of the red booths creaking with the weight of ghosts as weary patrons shifted and settled. A couple in the corner murmured over a shared milkshake. A trucker at the counter hunched over his plate, the dull metal of his fork clinking against the ceramic like he was digging his way out of something. A waitress—Dana, according to her faded name tag—gave me a polite smile that barely hid the exhaustion in her eyes.

“Anywhere you like, hon,” she said, and her voice was warm in that way that said she’d seen it all—maybe more than she’d wanted—and didn’t care enough to judge. I nodded and picked a booth in the corner, back to the wall. Old habits.

Places like this had a kind of honesty that the rest of the world lacked. Here, you knew what you were getting. No pretense, no polished bullshit—just folks, raw and worn down, pretending that another cup of black sludge could hold the darkness at bay. I couldn’t taste it anymore, but that didn’t matter. The ritual did. I wrapped my hands around the chipped mug Dana brought, the heat trying its best to thaw fingers that were more memory than flesh.

I closed my eyes, letting the clatter of plates, the low hum of conversation, the hiss and splutter of the coffee machine wash over me. Outside, the city was busy pretending—heroes, villains, martyrs, monsters—but in here, it was just people. People keeping their heads down and trying to make it through another night. Maybe that was enough. Tonight, maybe that was all the heroics anyone could hope for.

The door swung open with a lazy jangle, and Bart stepped in. I could spot him even without looking—he had that energy that seemed to fill a room a second before he entered it. He hadn’t changed much. Maybe a little rounder around the edges, the kind of weight that comes when life slows down enough to let you catch your breath. His shirt was wrinkled, the tie more of an accessory than a commitment, hanging limp and defeated like it had spent all day losing a fight with gravity.

Bart’s eyes found mine, and for a second—just a second—there was something like hesitation. Then it was gone, replaced with the grin I remembered, weary but real. He walked over, his heavy footsteps muffled by the worn linoleum, and slid into the booth across from me with a groan.

“Jack,” he said, and the name felt heavier than it should, like he was testing it out, making sure it still fit.

“Bart,” I nodded back, trying not to smile, failing a little. He tossed a thin manila folder onto the table, the paper rustling against the sticky surface.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“You’re a lifesaver,” I said, my fingers brushing the folder—but not taking it just yet. It felt wrong to rush. Like there were dues to be paid before we could get to the business part.

Bart snorted, his eyes already drifting towards the counter. “Yeah, yeah. You and your damn cases.” He lifted a hand, signaling to Dana. “How about a slice of that apple pie? Actually, make it two. And a coffee—decaf.” He glanced back at me, catching the raised eyebrow I shot him.

“Decaf? Really? Isn’t the world fake enough as it is?”

He shrugged, a ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. “Old lady’s got it in her head it’s better for my heart.”

“Since when do you listen to anyone else?”

“Since I learned the value of having something solid to come back to,” he said, a flicker of something serious passing through his eyes before he brushed it off with a half-smile. He leaned back, stretching, and sighed. “Besides, it ain’t the caffeine I need tonight. Just the warmth. I’m not burning the midnight oil as much these days. Some of us have to grow up, eventually.”

I nodded, understanding. We sat in silence for a beat, the folder still between us like a barrier neither of us wanted to acknowledge. It was funny, in a way—how much unsaid crap could stack up in a decade, piling into mountains no one wanted to be the first to start climbing.

“Jack,” Bart said, softer this time, eyes flicking between the folder and me. “You’re not… seriously getting back in, are you? It’s a bad time to test those waters. Something’s been stirring at the bottom lately—something mean.”

I tried a smile, but it fell flat before reaching my eyes. “’fraid so.”

Bart’s face hardened. “Any way you can pull out before it sees you? You know how it goes. Once something in that darkness locks on, you’re hooked.”

I dragged the folder closer, feeling the chill settle into my bones. “Too late for that, Bart. Way too late.”

I tore open the envelope, taking a deep breath before flipping through the contents. Bart’s voice came low from across the table.

“Mind telling me what I’m sticking my neck out for, Jack?”

The file was thin. Too thin. A record, some sparse notes, a few grainy photos of the house’s exterior. An interview with the deceased’s family. That was it. But what stood out wasn’t what was there—it was what wasn’t. No photos of the crime scene itself. No details on the nature of the deaths. Just a hollow shell of information.

“Anyone from the Council been snooping around the files?” I asked, my voice careful.

Bart leveled me with a hard stare. “Jack, the Council’s always around. One of their guys even has an official spot on the force now—artifact oversight.”

My gut twisted. Worse than I thought. The Council always had their fingers in things, but it had been a whispered conspiracy, shadows behind the curtain. Now they were stepping out into the light, making it official. That meant they were confident, that they had leverage they weren’t afraid to flex.

“Anything else?” I pushed.

Bart’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned back. “You first, Jack.” His expression was tight, guarded. He wasn’t giving me everything, not yet. He wanted to know what kind of trouble he was diving into. Fair enough. I owed him at least that much.