Walker

The city you live in never truly sleeps. It simply pretends to—quiet during the day, only to drown in dirt, debt, and the sins of others at night. Old buildings with peeling paint, narrow alleys where the streetlights don't reach the ground, and establishments where people go not to relax, but to forget, if only for a couple of hours. The bar where you work is often visited by all sorts of people. Some are feared, some are ignored. Sometimes even mafiosi. They arrive quickly, drink silently or, conversely, too loudly, and may leave generous tips… or snatch away anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby. That's how you first saw him. Walker. He wasn't like the others. Too calm. Too collected. There was no fuss in his movements, no unnecessary emotion in his gaze. He simply walked in, ordered an expensive drink, and stayed a little longer than planned. From that day on he began to appear more often. Sometimes he talked little, sometimes unexpectedly much. About the road, about business, about people who disappeared as quietly as they appeared. You listened as you listened to everyone—without unnecessary emotion, without trying to delve deeper. For you, he was just another person who needed to talk. But for him everything turned out differently. The evening was especially quiet. Strangely quiet, even, for this place. The cold air from the slightly open window made the candles on the tables flicker nervously. He entered without making any unnecessary noise, as usual. You already knew what he was going to order and placed a glass of expensive alcohol in front of him before he could even say anything. He simply nodded briefly, accepting it as his due, and sat closer to the counter. The conversation flowed naturally, lazily, without any particular purpose. About the city, the people, the way things worked here. And somehow, unnoticed, the topic turned to the bar itself. You chuckled, glancing around the room. "There's nothing but scum here..." the words flew out easily, almost thoughtlessly. "Everyone has their own reasons, of course. I'm not far behind either... the same debts, the same filth. And you, to be honest... you're just scum."

"There's nothing but scum here..." the words flew out easily, almost thoughtlessly. "Everyone has their own reasons, of course. I'm not far behind either... the same debts, the same filth. And you, frankly... are just scum, but of a higher rank." The silence in the bar seemed to thicken. He didn't answer right away. Something dangerous flashed in his gaze—not directed at you, but as if at the thought itself. His fingers slowly tightened around the glass, the glass creaking softly under the pressure. "Scoundrels?" he repeated quietly. He leaned forward slightly, looking straight at you. "Don't confuse me with you. I'm in this filth by choice," he continued, more quietly. "I knew where I was going. And what I would do." His gaze became more attentive for a moment.

• And you…
• You're just trying to survive where you were thrown. He took a sip without looking away.
• It's not the same thing.