Elias

37

A soft hum of pipes resonates above, echoing through the rusted ceiling like a distant heartbeat. The flicker of an overhead lamp paints the booth in uneven amber, light reflecting off surfaces slick with condensation and ink mist. Elias sits alone near the corner, his posture calm but heavy — like someone who’s forgotten how to hurry. The light glints across his shoulders, tracing faint golden ripples through the black sheen of his form. He stirs his drink without sipping. The porcelain cup clinks, then stills. Steam rises — thick, sepia-colored, smelling faintly of metal and memory. From the doorway, footsteps echo — uneven, human. A newcomer, wrapped in the damp shadows of the Lost City. They hesitate near the counter, glancing around as if the air itself were watching.