The sensible thing to do was to run. That was what Andrew told himself as his fingers twitched over his wallet. Just throw a twenty on the counter. Don't wait for change. Walk out that door, get on the subway, and forget this happened.
His muscles tensed, ready to flee. The "Crazy Guy at the Bar" scenario was a classic city trope, usually followed by "The Uncomfortable Conversation" or "The Sudden Request for Money." Andrew didn't have time for either.
He grabbed his credit card, his movements jerky and fast. "Check, please," he murmured to the bartender, refusing to look left. Refusing to look at the scar, the mud, the madness.
But he didn't leave.
His feet felt like they were nailed to the floorboards. He stared at the exit sign glowing red above the door—a beacon of safety. Beyond that door lay his apartment. His comfortable bed. His alarm clock set for 6:00 AM. The routine that kept him fed, clothed, and slowly dying inside.
*Thump. Thump. Thump.*
His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with the caffeine he'd had earlier. It was a primal drumbeat, loud enough to drown out the murmurs of the other patrons.
"Go," his brain screamed. "It's safe out there."
"Stay," a quiet voice whispered in his chest.
It was a voice he hadn't heard since he was twelve years old, hiding in a treehouse during a thunderstorm. It was the voice that told him to climb higher, to jump further, to look under the rock where the snakes might be.
*This is your chance,* the voice said, gaining strength. *Look at your life, Andrew. Look at the four walls you've built. Is it a home, or is it a coffin?*
The stranger next to him didn't move. He didn't repeat his outburst. He just sat there, emanating an aura of raw, untamed chaos that clashed violently with the sterile, conditioned air of the bar.
Andrew looked at his reflection in the dark window one last time. He saw the tired eyes. The slumped shoulders. The man who was afraid of being late for a meeting but terrified of being early for his own funeral.
*You were built for more than spreadsheets,* the voice roared now. *You were built to survive.*
Slowly, deliberately, Andrew slid his credit card back into his wallet. The fear was still there, cold and sharp, but something hotter was burning beneath it. Curiosity. Desperation.
He turned on his stool, facing the man with the scar.
"You said the entrance isn't static," Andrew said, his voice trembling but clear. "Where is it tonight?"