On the Hush
964 Words
The Rust Bar didn’t live up to its name. It outlived it.
The metal on the sign was polished to a soft gleam, with warm red neon that pulsed like a heartbeat. Outside, the alley buzzed with the low hum of old AC units and the distant bass from inside. The bouncer—built like a concrete wall with eyes—gave her a look as she approached. Alya didn’t flinch.
“I’m not here for trouble,” she said.
He grunted and stepped aside. Inside was another world.
Dim lights floated in red and gold. The smell of whiskey, sweat, and old songs clung to the wood-paneled walls. The music wasn’t loud, but it wrapped around her. Jazz, maybe. Or blues, twisted into something darker.
Alya moved to the bar, her steps careful but sure. She could feel eyes—some curious, some indifferent, none trusting. She waited until the bartender glanced her way. Middle-aged, bearded, and watching the room like a man who’d seen too much of it.
She leaned in. “Something on the hush,” she said quietly.
The bartender blinked slowly, his face unreadable. Then he nodded once and poured her a drink—dark amber, smooth and sharp. He placed it in front of her and jerked his head toward the back.
Alya left the drink untouched. She walked toward the door he’d indicated, the hallway behind it narrow and pulsing with quiet music. At the end: a red curtain, heavy as sin. She parted it and stepped into a small, private room.
And there she was.
Zara.
She sat on a velvet couch like it was her throne, a glass of something golden in one hand, cigarette in the other. Her hair was long, thick, and dark with streaks of fading crimson. Eyes like wet charcoal, watching Alya without blinking.
“You’re not the usual hush,” Zara said.
Alya didn’t sit. “I’m looking for Ellis.”
Zara smirked. “That’s not a name people ask for lightly.”
“I was told you might know where he is.”
Zara laughed, low and soft. “Sweetheart, I’ve known where Ellis is for years. Question is—why do you care?”
“He knew my father. Michael Benchman.”
Zara’s eyes lost a bit of focus. Just a flicker. Then her smile returned, wider now. “Of course he did. Everyone in the underground knew Michael. And everyone kept their distance once they realized he was too smart to be loyal.”
Alya stepped closer. “They died. My parents.”
“Mm. I heard. Bloody mess, wasn’t it?” Zara took a sip, then set the glass down. “Still don’t see how Ellis fits into this.”
“I was told he handled things. Threats. Clean-ups. Deliveries.”
“Deliveries?” Zara raised an eyebrow. “That’s a gentle word for bodies.”
Alya didn’t react.
Zara studied her for a long moment. “You’ve got your mother’s cheekbones. And your father’s... hunger. Dangerous mix.”
“I don’t care about comparisons.”
Zara leaned back, exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “Ellis isn’t the man you think he is. But I know where you can find him. Only thing is... I’m not sure you should.”
“Why not?”
“Because once you see him, whatever innocence you’re clinging to dies for good.”
“I didn’t bring innocence with me,” Alya said.
Zara’s smile twisted. “Fine. He’s in New Devlin. Lives in the flats above a strip club called Violet Skin. Doesn’t come down much. Paranoid bastard.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.” Zara’s voice dropped. “You think Ellis has answers. But what he has... is blood. And if you go poking too hard, he’ll add yours to the collection.”
Alya turned to leave.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Zara called after her. “Ellis doesn’t talk for free.”
“I won’t be paying in cash.”
Zara’s laugh followed her out like a scent. “No one ever does.”
Outside, the air felt different. Heavier. She stood there for a moment, the city pressing around her like a living thing. Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She hesitated, then answered.
A man’s voice, low and breathless: “You’re asking the wrong questions.”
She froze. “Who is this?”
Click.
The line went dead.
Her heartbeat kicked up. Someone was watching.
She moved fast, weaving through the crowd like a shadow, making sure she wasn’t followed. She caught a glimpse of movement across the street—a figure in a hood, half-turned away—but when she looked again, it was gone.
Paranoia wasn’t a symptom anymore. It was survival.
That night, she didn’t go home. She checked into a small motel three streets over, using a fake name and cash. The room smelled like bleach and stale cigarettes. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. The city moaned outside the window like it had secrets, and none of them good.
Her mind spun.
Zara’s words, the voice on the phone, Ellis in New Devlin.
She pulled her notebook from her bag and flipped it open.
Names. Arrows. Places. Dates.
Her father’s contacts. Her mother’s enemies. Strange overlaps she hadn’t noticed before. Too many threads. Too many shadows.
She circled one name: Ellis.
Then she wrote two more words beneath it: no turning back.
When she finally lay down, sleep didn’t come easily. And when it did, it brought her dreams of fire and red curtains, of a faceless man whispering truths she didn’t want to hear.
In the morning, she was already dressed before the sun broke.
New Devlin was waiting.
- Writer
