Chapter 2
1191 Words
Outside the Bar | The Second Customer
The storm had not let up.
Rain pelted the cobblestones outside, rattling the shutters and drumming against the roof. The tavern’s lanterns flickered as wind whistled through tiny cracks in the wooden frame. Every so often, a bolt of lightning illuminated the street, followed by the low growl of thunder that made the glasses on the shelf tremble.
I sat behind the counter, staring at the silver coin left by my first customer. The crest stamped on its surface was unfamiliar—some kind of crowned eagle—but the weight of it was undeniable. Real silver.
I turned it over and over in my palm.
“…So this is currency here, huh?”
My heart wouldn’t stop racing. My first cocktail in another world, and already someone had mistaken it for a miraculous potion. If word spread… I didn’t know whether to be terrified or excited.
Still, there was one comfort: the bottles behind me. Gin, whiskey, rum, vodka, liqueurs—all perfectly arranged, as though the universe itself had decided I couldn’t function without them.
“…At least I’m not empty-handed.”
I poured myself a tiny sip of rum—just to calm the nerves, of course—and leaned back against the counter.
That was when the door creaked open again.
---
This time, it wasn’t a weary adventurer stumbling in.
A woman stepped inside, shaking the rain from her cloak. She moved with a kind of deliberate grace, though her expression was anything but calm. Her brows were furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes—dark, sharp—were the eyes of someone with too many secrets.
The storm outside seemed to cling to her, thunder rolling just as she closed the door.
She scanned the tavern in one glance. Then, wordlessly, she made her way to the counter and sat down.
“…A strong drink,” she said at last, her voice low but steady. “Something to burn away the cold.”
I blinked. Strong? Right. This was no time to hesitate.
My instincts went to work. Rain still hammered the roof. The air smelled damp, heavy. A stormy night like this called for something bold, straightforward, uncompromising.
Vodka. Coffee liqueur. Black Russian.
“…I’ve got just the thing,” I said, reaching for the bottles.
---
The Black Russian was simple. Brutally simple. No garnish, no elaborate technique. Just vodka and Kahlúa over ice. Two ingredients, yet a world of depth.
I measured the vodka first, the sharp scent cutting through the tavern’s musky air. Then came the coffee liqueur, rich and dark, pouring into the glass like ink. The two swirled together, ice clinking as I stirred.
The result was a drink as black as midnight, glinting faintly under the lantern light.
I slid the glass across the counter.
“Here. A Black Russian.”
---
She studied it suspiciously.
“…What did you call it?”
“Black Russian. Vodka and coffee liqueur. Strong, but smooth. It’s the kind of drink people used to order late at night to… forget their troubles.”
I smiled faintly, slipping into my old bartender rhythm. “It’s actually a modern classic, first made in Brussels around 1949. The bartender named it ‘Black Russian’ because of the dark coffee and the vodka—back then, vodka was strongly associated with Russia. No frills. Just straight to the point.”
Her lips parted slightly. But instead of comprehension, her expression grew even more intense.
“…‘Black Russian’…” she repeated, almost reverently. “The Black Kingdom of the East… the land of eternal winter. And… you have captured its darkness in liquid form?”
“…Uh.”
She leaned forward, eyes wide. “And this tale you speak of—crafted in the year of the 949th cycle—was it not a prophecy? That one day, such a potion would be forged, distilled from night itself?”
I nearly choked. “No, no—wait. It’s just coffee and vodka! It’s not—”
But she was already lifting the glass to her lips.
---
She sipped.
For a moment, the only sound was the storm outside.
Then, she exhaled slowly, her eyes closing.
“…Strong. Bitter. Sharp. Like a blade in the dark.”
When she opened her eyes, they shone with something fierce.
“This is… incredible. My fatigue is gone. My mind feels sharpened. The shadows themselves bend away.”
“…That’s… probably just the caffeine,” I muttered.
But she slammed the glass down with force, staring at me with something that looked dangerously like awe.
“You are no ordinary innkeeper. You are an alchemist of unparalleled skill. To forge such a draught with so few ingredients…” She shook her head, almost trembling. “I must know—what price do you demand for such power?”
“…Price?”
She reached into her cloak and set down two heavy coins, larger and darker than the first customer’s. Gold. They gleamed under the lantern light.
“…This should suffice. Consider the rest… an offering.”
I stared at the coins. My hands itched. My brain screamed.
“…Lady, it’s just vodka and Kahlúa.”
---
Her gaze softened, but only slightly.
“…I came here because the storm has made the roads unsafe. My mission requires strength, focus, and the will to endure sleepless nights. And you…” She glanced at the half-empty glass. “…You have given me precisely what I needed.”
I opened my mouth to protest again. But her expression silenced me. Whatever burden she carried, it was not small.
“…Drink carefully,” I said finally, slipping into bartender instinct. “It’s stronger than it looks. Too many, and it won’t sharpen your mind—it’ll dull it.”
Her lips curved into the faintest smile. “Even your warnings are riddles of wisdom. Truly… you are a keeper of secrets.”
“…I’m really not.”
But she raised her hood again, finished the last of the Black Russian, and stood.
“Thank you, Keeper. I will return. And when I do… I hope to taste more of your miracles.”
The door opened. Rain and wind rushed in. Then she was gone, vanishing into the storm as quickly as she had arrived.
---
I stared at the counter. At the gold coins glinting in the lantern light.
“…What the hell is happening to me.”
I pressed my forehead into my palms, groaning.
First an Amaretto Sour mistaken for divine healing. Now a Black Russian hailed as a shadow-forged potion from some mystical kingdom.
This wasn’t a tavern anymore. It was a landmine field of misunderstandings waiting to explode.
And I was standing right in the middle of it.
“…God help me,” I muttered. “Because if people keep thinking cocktails are magic, I’m doomed.”
The storm roared louder, as if mocking me.
And yet—despite my dread—part of me couldn’t help but wonder.
What kind of customer would come next?
- Writer
