Dark Nest Syndicate 4+1 · Chat

【First Encounter】 On a rainy night in the western district of Ash City, rust-colored foam surges backward out of the drainage ditches under the torrential downpour. A neon sign, snapped half-broken by the wind, dangles unevenly over the sign of the Nightwatcher Bar. A line of amber warmth leaks through the crack of the door, carrying the scent of aged wood and tobacco. You push open the door. The wind chime rings three times, and your rain-soaked hem leaves a long, dark streak across the floorboards. Inside, at the bar counter—four men. A heavy fur-collared coat deep in a booth, black bandages in the dark corner of the bar counter, the glare of a laptop screen, a metal lighter on the sofa. Four pairs of eyes lock onto you at the exact same instant. None of them rise, none of them speak; the roar of the rain fills the three-second vacuum. Kane speaks first. His boots slam off the coffee table onto the floor. He grips the metal lighter in his palm, clicking it sharply. His pale golden-red slit pupils scrape up over you from bottom to top, like a knife blade dragging across bone. Kane: "Shut the door. The wind's blowing in." He has no intention of getting up, but the hand gripping the lighter relaxes—his calloused index finger taps twice on the bar counter. He points at the puddle by your feet, taps again, traces a half-circle with his fingertip, and pulls his hand back. Kane: "Running out here in a downpour like this... are you fucking lost, or are you tired of living?" Cyril's voice cuts in from the innermost side, neither loud nor soft, laced with a smoky rasp—like someone slowly striking a match in the dark. He isn't looking at you; he gazes out at the curtain of rain outside, his elbow resting on the table, fingers resting against his lower lip—the edge of his lip ring flashes beneath the light. Cyril: "Kane, keep your voice down when talking to a guest. The carpet was just replaced. If you scare them, you'll be paying for the carpet cleaning yourself." He finally turns his head. A faint mist lingers deep within those narrow, languid eyes. His gaze lingers on your face for two seconds, like a cat appraising a half-open window. Then the corner of his mouth twitches slightly—a movement so subtle it barely qualifies as a smile. Cyril: "With rain this heavy, the Nightwatcher isn't open tonight. Though—" He pauses, his fingers drifting away from his lip ring to tap twice on the tabletop, slow and rhythmic like a metronome. Cyril: "—you've already pushed the door open. Have a seat. Don't just stand there dripping water." Julian leans over the far end of the bar, the laptop screen casting a cool blue glow across his face. His glasses have slipped down to the tip of his nose. He doesn't seem to look up at all, his fingers flying across the keyboard. Yet you notice—his red fox ears have poked out from his hair, plush and soft, their tips tilted roughly fifteen degrees in your direction like a pair of tuning antennas. Julian: "Don't listen to them. Kane's loud because he got soaked himself and he's in a foul mood. Cyril says 'not open' because he didn't comb his hair today." He pushes his glasses up and finally raises his eyes. Those fox-like, narrowed slits observe you from behind the lenses, his gaze shifting from your dripping hair down to the fingers gripping the door handle. Then he smiles—faintly, the sharp tips of his fangs peeking out. Julian: "Did you come to shelter from the rain, hide from someone... or are you looking for something?" He cocks his head, his fluffy curls brushing over his collarbone. He pinches a hard candy wrapped in clear cellophane between his fingers and rolls it slowly across the bar—right to your side, stopping just beside your knuckles. Julian: "Guess right, and there's a prize. Guess wrong... there's still a prize." The man in the corner who has been silent all this time finally moves. Eli rises from the shadows of the bar's dark corner, his movements so light that even the tall barstool doesn't make a sound. The black bandage over his left eye almost merges completely with the gloom. His uninjured right eye watches you quietly—a light, almost transparent gaze, devoid of sharpness or aggression, like a deer catching headlights in the middle of a highway at night. He walks halfway around the bar, passing by your side without brushing against you. He stops at the water dispenser, fills a glass halfway with warm water, turns around, and sets it on the bar beside you—about three fingers' width from your wrist. Eli: "...Your lips are dry." His voice is very low, like sandpaper dragging across old wood, so brief it is almost just a breath. Then he looks away, walking back to his seat in the shadows and sitting down again facing the wall like a silent sculpture. But the glass of water stays there, its rim spotless—untouched by anyone. Kane suddenly scoffs, tossing his lighter onto the table with a dull metal thud. Kane: "Eli, if you're fucking pouring water for someone, fill it up! Half a glass—who are you feeding, a cat?" Eli doesn't turn around. His voice floats out from the shadows, flat as a straight line. Eli: "...They won't finish it." Kane freezes for a second, then snaps his head around to stare at you. His slit pupils contract slightly, like a predator's eyes stung by reflected light. His lips move, the old scar at the corner of his mouth tugging along, before he finally squeezes out a low, mumbled sound—half curse, half chuckle. Kane: "Fine. You've even fucking calculated whether they can finish it or not." Cyril lets out a low laugh from the booth, brief and light, like a feather landing on velvet fur. He picks up the untouched glass of liquor he set down earlier and raises it slightly in your direction—not a toast, just holding it up, the rim tilting half an inch toward you. Cyril: "Four to one. Kane thinks you're lost, Julian thinks you're looking for something, Eli thinks you're thirsty—" He pauses, the rim of the glass settling slowly back onto the table. When the bottom meets the wood, there is no sound—as steady as his breathing. Cyril: "I think you pushed open the wrong door. But pushing the wrong door and still not leaving—" He tilts his head. That lazy, panther-like gaze glides from your wet hair down to your wrist, then settles back into your eyes. Cyril: "—means it wasn't a mistake after all." The sound of rain suddenly swells. Somewhere outside, a sheet of iron metal is yanked up by the wind and slammed back down. Inside the Nightwatcher Bar, four lights, four shadows, four directions of gazes intersect upon you, weaving an invisible, loose net. No one speaks to ask you to sit down, and no one stops you from leaving.