Page 92 of Her Soul to Own

A bar that looks like it’s given up on trying—all flickering bulbs and stained floorboards. Here, the jukebox only plays songs that sound like they’ve been exiled from decent society, and the walls haven’t been cleaned since the Cold War.

It smells like old beer, bad decisions, and maybe blood, though you don’t ask. That metallic tang clings to the air like it knows it is unwelcome but refuses to leave. The floor is also sticky enough to suggest that it’s trying to keep you here permanently. The booths, once some unfortunate shade of red, are now dulled to the color of dried rust, almost sinister in their stillness.

And I’m here because of a text from Zara.

Charming, my ass.

She’s already seated when I walk in, and she sticks out like a Swarovski chandelier in a condemned basement. She looks like she took a wrong turn leaving a fashion week afterparty and then ended up in a Quentin Tarantino scene. Her heels click against the grimy floor like they’re offended to touch it. She’s perched on the edge of a cracked booth like it might bite her if she settles in.

And that Birkin bag of hers is being held in a death grip as though it’s wired to explode if it touches anything unsterilized.

She’s trying to play it cool, scrolling on her phone like she’s above it all. But her eyes betray her, darting from face to face and tracking every leather jacket and scar. Every man here looks like he’s auditioning for the role of “Guy Who Buries You Behind a Bar.”

Zara flinches every time someone clears their throat too loudly.

She doesn’t belong here, never did. She’s all proper and polished in a place held together by spite and spilled beer, which only raises the question:Why the hell did she call me here?

Because Black Lungs Bar isn’t the kind of place you come to talk. It’s where secrets go to get stabbed in the alley, and evenIam careful not to touch anything for too long.

“Nice spot,” I say dryly, glancing at the flickering “BEER & BEEF” neon sign that’s missing the F.

She scowls. “You think I wanted to come here?”

“No,” I mutter. “But I’m dying to know why you did.”

As I approach the table, I finally notice him—the man sitting across from her, partially hidden in the shadowed corner, his body angled toward her like they’ve been deep in negotiation.

He has that government-issued smugness about him, with perfect posture, trimmed beard, and a glass of aged whiskey in his hand. He looks like he owns the room. An FBI badge is clipped to his blazer just enough to be visible, just enough to say, “Yeah, I can fuck up your life with one phone call.” His grin is the type that’s practiced—corporate and snake-like. And his eyes have been on me since the second I walked in.

He leans forward, extending a hand like we’re here to toast mergers instead of cleaning up a digital bloodbath. He’s polished. So polished that it’s making me uncomfortable.

Zara’s posture tenses like she’s bracing for impact.

“Silas,” she says quickly, her voice strained but steady, “this is Agent Elijah Blake. He’s… looking into the leak. Someone flagged it on a federal node.”

I don’t take his hand.

“I don’t shake hands with men who smile at what they want to protect.”

Elijah doesn’t flinch. He just lowers his hand slowly and says, “Your file’s a goddamn novel. Former Blackwatch. Then a mercenary. Then… babysitter?”

I lean forward, elbows on the table, invading his space like smoke. “She’s not your jurisdiction.”

His grin fades, just a fraction. “She’s not your property either,” he shoots back, his voice calm, though the edge is there.

We just sit there, staring at each other, locked in like two wolves measuring teeth.

Neither of us blinks. Neither of us breathes.

Somewhere in the background, a fan squeals and a glass clinks, but here, in this charged standoff, the world has gone still.

His jaw ticks. I’ve done this dance before, and I’m better at it. He’s waiting for me to blink, and I’m waiting for him to get tired.

“You gonna keep glaring, or should I start charging rent?” he mutters eventually.

I raise a brow. “Depends. You planning to keep being a problem?”

A beat passes. Then, he grins again, but now it’s thinner.

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