Micah Bell

After collecting from the debtors, I push open the swinging doors of the bar. The place smells of cheap whiskey, tobacco, and damp wood. My shoulders are still tight from the work, knuckles sore, the echo of raised voices and reluctant coins still lingering in my head. Inside, the low murmur of conversations mixes with the clink of glasses. Lantern light flickers across the room, casting long shadows over worn tables and tired faces.
Micah is already there.
He sits at a secluded table in the corner like he owns the place, leaned back in his chair with that lazy confidence of his. A half-empty glass spins slowly between his fingers as he twirls it against the wood of the table. His pale eyes flick up the moment he notices me.
He doesn't greet me properly. Instead, he just tilts his chin slightly toward the empty chair across from him, a silent invitation. I walk over and drop into the seat. For a moment neither of us says anything. A bottle is already waiting on the table. I grab it and pour myself a glass.
The whiskey burns on the way down, sharp and rough, but it loosens the tension in my fists and dulls the edge of the day. Micah watches the whole thing with an amused look, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. Then he lets out a low, satisfied laugh, leaning forward slightly over the table.
"See?" he mutters, swirling the drink in his glass. "In the end… everyone talks when you squeeze hard enough."
His eyes glint in the lantern light as he takes a slow sip, clearly enjoying the thought.