Leaning against the wooden counter, the dim light barely illuminated the patchy, worn surfaces. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something faintly acrid, like the smell of long-buried secrets.
"Of course I'm curious!" I blurted out. "You're being so cryptic, how could anyone not wonder?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he took another drag, longer this time then slowly exhaled a haze of gray smoke in the other direction, as if trying to blow my irritation away into the air.
"Can you really fault a man for looking out for himself?" He shifted toward me, eyes veiled in something inscrutable. "Safety's a rare thing down here. Trust? It breaks every law this place lives by. And some rootless kid with nothing but a name? Even less reason."
Truth be told, he wasn't entirely wrong.
"Then why reveal Torbica to me? Or the specifics of refining drugs?" I kept my voice steady, but a hint of defiance slipped through.
"Common knowledge in this line of work. No secret at all." His words were a low rumble, as if dredged from the earth. "You're one of us now. What's left to conceal?"
If that's how it is then I'll take what I can get.
"A few things still don't add up." I tugged out a battered notebook and a pencil chewed down to the nub. "So the petal smoke, it's really the least lethal part?"
A slow dip of his chin. "Correct. The toxin concentration in Torbica's smoke is nothing compared to its sap, pistils or even the stem tips. Think of it like the tar in a cigarette."
"Is smoking the only way to use Torbica, or are there other methods?"
"You can eat or drink it by dissolving the sap, but that's basically suicide." A dry chuckle. "Though, as I mentioned, Torbica's sap can also neutralize incurable poisons. A trick even most dealers don't know."
My pencil raced across the notebook, scribbling every critical detail. The pistil is Torbica's seed, while the petal smoke is less toxic but highly addictive, not immediately lethal. But the sap can neutralize incurable toxins? A purifying agent? What did he mean by that?
Suddenly, he looked up, his gaze skimming past me before settling on the old clock hanging on the wall, its hour hand now past six. Silently, he turned and disappeared behind the faded red curtain of the old kitchen, leaving only the faint creak of footsteps on worn floorboards. Moments later, he reappeared, clutching a battered straw broom. With methodical strokes, the broom whispered across the wood, sweeping away fine dust, producing a monotonous sound that grated on the nerves.
His gaze seemed more focused on gathering each speck of dust than on my question, as if that was the most important task at hand. Then, before I could voice another question, the front door suddenly clicked open with a dry, sharp sound that cut through the silence. A stranger walked in, wrapped in a thick overcoat with his hat pulled low, revealing only a square jaw and tightly pressed lips. Without hesitation, Amir shoved the half-gripped broom into my hands, disregarding my bewildered expression.
Spinning on his heel, he strode behind the bar and offered an oddly warm smile. The newcomer silently settled at a window-side table, his gaze sweeping the room before retrieving a tattered notebook from his coat. Their eyes met, no words, no wasted movement, just the silent understanding of men who knew the rules all too well.
"Help me sweep up." He didn't even look at me as he reached for a near-empty bottle.
Seriously? I wasn't his damn errand girl.
"I came to do business.'' I muttered, glaring at the broom. "...You're running a real scam here."
"If I were a con scammer. You wouldn't have left here yesterday with your money still in your pocket.'' He said, voice flat. Like this was scripted. "They're coming. The buyers."
With that, he returned to the bar, his fingers dancing deftly between rows of glass bottles lining the high shelves, each one like a long-forgotten story slumbering in the shadows. The pale yellow light from the brass pendant lamps reflected off the Macallan 18 whiskey bottles, creating shimmering streaks like crystalline tears. He paused before the Hibiki 21, that legendary Japanese whiskey renowned for 'tasting like autumn in Kyoto'. His finger lightly traced the label, feeling the still-pristine smoothness of paper untouched by time. But perhaps, not the Hibiki today.
His hand reached for the Ardbeg Uigeadail, a taste of Scotland with smoke as deep as Islay's peat fires. The gentle 'pop' of the cork released an immediate bouquet:,smoldering peat, sweet vanilla and something wild like midnight sea winds. He took a Baccarat crystal glass, light refracting through its precise cuts into countless glittering fractals. With ceremonial slowness, he poured, each drop hitting the base like gentle rain on a tin roof. A few drops of mountain spring water, just enough to unlock the spirit's hidden depths, like tears releasing pent-up emotions. His silver bar spoon stirred delicate whirlpools before he placed the finished work on a tray and presented it to his guest.
Thirty minutes. That's all it took for the tranquil bar to transform into a hive of activity. Standing amidst the sudden commotion, I felt utterly disoriented. One moment I was sweeping floors; the next I was fumbling with heavy wooden trays, my hands trembling with each precarious step. My every movement betrayed an amateur's lack of experience, making me feel like a child playing at being a waitress.
"Red wine." A low voice rang out from the corner table.
"Right away." He answered, his hands moving with practiced ease, as if every step was second nature.
Leaning against the counter, I silently observed him. The way he tilted the bottle, the slow pour to prevent foaming, even the careful swipe of a spotless white cloth along the glass's edge, every gesture was precise, deliberate.
After a quick scan of the room, I asked. "Is it usually this busy here?"
As he prepped the next drink, he glanced at me over his shoulder, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Nah, it's just the weekend."
"Then why not get an extra hand?" It was obvious he was stretched thin, good thing I showed up.
His hands stilled as he considered it. "Not necessary." The answer was clipped, yet strangely self-assured. With practiced ease, he settled the two finished glasses onto a wooden tray. "Window-side corner."
I gingerly took the tray, the wine's weight humming against my fingers. While I knew I might not earn a single penny, the feeling of having my first real job, even temporary, was indescribable. For the first time, I felt myself maturing in an entirely new world, the world of adults, of work, and of responsibilities I'd never even imagined.
The metronome tick of the clock filled the bar's hushed space, the minute hand crawling past nine as dusk settled outside. Then, a sudden draft and the door swung open, its tiny bell chiming. Four figures slipped inside, as soundless as hunters, their black silk cloaks gleaming under the lamplight, threaded with gold filigree that swirled like whispered secrets.
The leader, a towering man with salt-and-pepper hair, swept the bar with razor-sharp eyes. His companion, a poised woman of indeterminate age, wore elbow-length black lace gloves that accentuated her fluid movements, each gesture hinting at unspoken influence. The remaining two hovered like specters, their unblinking gaze fixed on Amir behind the counter.
A soft clink sounded as he deliberately set down his rag, abruptly ceasing his rhythmic wiping motions. He then strode toward the entrance with the bearing of a proprietor preparing for high-stakes negotiations. The flip of the "Closed" sign created an unmistakable boundary, separating the outside world from the private space within.
"They're here." He murmured. "Get the Torbica ready."
The quartet moved soundlessly to the farthest corner, settling around the massive oak table deliberately positioned away from prying windows. The scraping of chairs against the hardwood floor, however, released a teeth-gritting groan, like the sigh of forgotten ghosts. When Amir gestured for me to follow, my pulse stuttered, each footfall weighed down by a strange apprehension.
"Gentlemen. Madame." He greeted with uncharacteristic formality, dipping his head in precise deference.
The silver-haired man, clearly their spokesman, responded with a slow, knowing nod. ''Rumors reached us...about your 'special variety.'"
"Torbica." The lace-gloved woman clarified, her voice slicing through the dim light like shears through silk.
"My associate here represents the Empire's rarest commodity." Amir stated smoothly, tossing me a calculated glance. "Frankly, we haven't seen quality like this on the black market in decades. I expect you'll appreciate her...unique properties."
Blood rushed to my face like a betrayal. Despite mental preparation, I stood paralyzed, a rabbit before wolves. My hidden hands trembled against my cloak's hem as I bowed, the gesture too sharp, too sudden to conceal my panic.
"A child?" One buyer snorted.
Amir's laugh was a blade wrapped in silk. "Where law holds no sway, what meaning has age?" He snapped his fingers. "Bring out the specimen."
The four guests leaned forward in unison, their predatory gazes tracking my trembling hands as I unwrapped the faded cloth bundle. Fifty Torbica blossoms, a fortune in forbidden petals, tumbled onto the table. One buyer jerked forward, fingers twitching with an addict's hunger, only to freeze when Amir's palm covered the bounty, his pleasant expression belying the warning.
"Torbica's beauty transcends language." He purred, fanning out three vibrantly-hued specimens like a magician's finale. "Fresh stock, wvery variety imaginable."
The air thickened with palpable tension, the charged moment before a lightning strike. Their eyes ignited with that particular madness of long-deprived souls finally seeing salvation.
"Can it truly be...?" The lace-gloved woman breathed to her companions, her cultured voice fraying at the edges with barely restrained need.
"No mistaking it. The golden variant, legend made flesh." The silver-haired man's whisper trembled, his cultivated composure cracking like thin ice. His gaze burned into the blossoms. "Name your price."
A dry swallow caught in my throat, exhilaration and terror swirling like twin serpents. For the first time, I stood trembling on the precipice of a world both wondrous and monstrous.
Amir made a show of considering. "Exceptional quality demands exceptional compensation."
"Naturally." The elder nodded, fingers twitching toward his breast pocket. "But first...Let's test the goods."
His glance toward me carried encrypted meaning. "Fetch the sample." He commanded, each syllable a velvet-covered blade.
By 'samples,' was he referring to the cigarettes he prepared earlier?
As I retreated behind the counter, my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. In the shadowy recesses beneath the shelves lay an ornate wooden box. The moment I lifted the lid, an intoxicatingly sweet aroma enveloped me - revealing delicate petals of burnt gold, their edges glittering with what looked like powdered diamonds.
"...This is Torbica..." My trembling hands set the box before them.