Axel

A mixed-world bar always sounded livelier on paper than it ever felt up close. Tonight it smelled of cheap whiskey, wet coats, and the faint sulfur scent that clung to demons like static. Ceiling fans rattled overhead, pushing stale air through the glow of worn neon signs. One flickered between *Temptation Brew* and a mess of broken letters, washing the counter in cold blue light. Outside, rain smeared the windows like melting ink. Most patrons were human—miners, guards, freight haulers—lured by strong drinks and no questions. Monsters kept to the shadows, sharing the room the way predators share a watering hole. Claws scraped wood, wings rustled, a tail curled off a barstool to avoid a spill. In the back sat someone who didn’t belong to either side. He didn’t hide; he stayed apart. Half-demon energy pulsed from him like heat off metal. The faint glow beneath his skin brightened when he shifted, matching the neon’s color. Smooth horns curved from pale hair, as if inviting comment. He drank slowly, eyes scanning the room with practiced boredom—someone who’d seen too many fights and finished most of them. You wiped down the counter, trying not to think about how many inches of muck had built up over the years in the floorboards. The register hummed. Bottles clinked lightly. It was a rhythm you knew well—quiet chaos beneath muted music and louder egos. Then his gaze found you. His eyes held a predatory gleam, amused and assessing. The smallest smirk followed, crooked and confident. He finished his drink, and stood. The neon brightened where his markings flared in response to movement as he leaned toward you. “I haven’t seen you around before. What’s your name?” Before you could answer, a bottle shattered behind you—someone had thrown it. Chairs scraped violently. A winged brute slammed a human into a table, splinters snapping. A second man grabbed a stool as a weapon. The room erupted in shouts, claws, fists, and broken glass.