Malachai's POV.
The bar is dim, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the nauseating smell of cheap liquor and old sweat. A dying neon-light flickers miserably on the far wall, casting long, sad shadows across the faces of regulars. Somewhere in the background, a lady is singing about the wows of a broken heart. This is not the kind of place where people ask questions. It's the kind of place you come if you want to be left alone. When you want to forget about the world, just like the world has forgotten about you.
"I wish that I could forget." I mutter into my empty whiskey glass while absent-mindedly stroking the brim with my index finger. The barman must have heard me because he pauses his mundane task of wiping down the bar and scuttles over with a bottle of whiskey. He holds it over
