Zurich parked the car near a local watering hole. It was a quick walk through a rundown little park, but Zurich wasn’t afraid of much. Before long, he stumbled upon a secluded bench nestled within the desolate greenery. Its lime-green paint was mostly gone, eaten by weather and time; one of the middle slats lay on the ground like a broken bone.
As fate would have it on this dark and dreary night, a lone figure drew near—one strikingly familiar.
"Jay?" The voice sliced through the frosty air.
It was Marcus, his childhood friend and old partner. Zurich almost confused him for his older brother, Jon; the genetics ran strong in that family. Marcus’ presence commanded attention, the kind earned only by surviving the streets. Broad-shouldered with a gaze that had seen more than its share of dark nights, he exuded an air of unspoken authority. With a weathered leather jacket clinging to his muscular frame, the scars on his skin and the steely resolve in his eyes made it clear: Marcus was not someone to be messed with.
Their exchange was brief, underscored by a mutual understanding etched in shared history. Zurich felt the corner of his lip tug into the ghost of a smile as he shared his newfound freedom. "Just got out."
Marcus reached into his coat to hand Zurich a lighter and what was left of his pack of cigarettes. As his arm swung toward him, Zurich’s vision blurred, the edges of the park turning into a static-heavy haze. He blinked hard, trying to clear the sudden fuzziness, but the image only sharpened into something unexpected.
At the wrists of Marcus’ leather sleeve, Zurich saw his friend’s veins not as blue, but as pulsing, jagged lines of pure ink-black. The darkness seemed to be crawling beneath the skin, thrumming with a life of its own as it climbed up Marcus’ neck. Zurich froze, his breath hitching, and as Marcus opened his mouth to speak, the horror deepened. His teeth, lips and tongue were stained in blackness, like he had been sucking on a broken pen for months.
Zurich recoiled, taking a sharp, involuntary step back, his boots crunching loudly on the dead leaves. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them until white spots danced behind his lids, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
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When he forced his eyes open again and looked back, the world had snapped back into its dull, gray reality. Marcus was just Marcus—flesh and blood, scarred skin, and a crooked, human smile.
"You alright there, Jay?" Marcus asked, his hand finally landing on Zurich’s shoulder.
Zurich nodded, though his skin crawled where they touched, the image of the blackness still burned into the back of his retinas.
"Something to take off the edge," Marcus continued, his breath fogging in the cold. "There’s an extra special one in there just for you—it’s got a dot on the tip. And remember, Jay, if you're ever looking to catch up on old times, I'm always around the Old Haven Playground after dark."
The tone carried the weight of insinuation, a clear echo of their past escapades. Catching the subtlety, Zurich nodded once, a silent acknowledgment, before the two parted ways.
The cellphone his mother had left him began to ring. Seeing her name on the screen, he shoved the device back into his pocket. Instead, he lit one of the three regular cigarettes and sat there until he had finished two of them.
Zurich flicked his cigarette onto the ground, watching the faint arc of sparks as it landed. He made his way back to the lime-green bench, but just as he began to sit, a sudden noise—the sharp crunch of sticks and leaves—snapped his senses to attention.
Instinct took over. Zurich’s hand darted to the pack with the drug-filled cigarette on the bench. Moving briskly, he slipped it beneath the thick overgrowth under his seat, concealing it. He didn't linger to see what made the noise; he turned and headed quickly toward the bar.
As he arrived at the pub, he reached for his last regular cigarette, only to remember he’d stashed the whole pack in the thicket. Bummed, he turned his attention to the lively bar. It hummed with the low murmur of regular patrons. He slid into a vacant stool between two of them and motioned for the bartender, a pretty brunette with an easy smile.
"Double shot of the strongest you’ve got," he called out, then added on a whim, "And throw one in for yourself if you're up for it."
She agreed with a gracious thank you, leaning forward as she waited for payment. She purposefully accentuated her cleavage, a move that was not lost on Zurich. "What's your name?" she asked, as if to christen the shared moment.
"Zurich," he replied with a nod, raising his glass. "To freedom."
They took the shots together, wincing slightly at the bracing potency. The bartender returned her glass to the counter with a practiced hand and flashed a playful grin. "I'm Triss," she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she wiped down the bar.
“Nice to meet you, Triss,” Zurich responded, his interest clearly extending beyond mere niceties.
