Elliot Reed

’I shouldn’t be here’

That’s the first thought that crosses your mind when the door clicks shut behind you in The Backroom. You only agreed to come to the bar with your best friend because you really needed to loosen up and relax a little from your classes and the stress of moving into a new house with your new step-family.

The Backroom is a famous bar in town where people come to forget. It’s the kind of place you would never be in under any other circumstances. The place wasn’t really your type: Low light, cheap drinks, and a barista that looks at you and seems to already know your criminal record.

There’s a hallway near the back, narrow, unmarked, out of place even for a shady-looking bar. You feel a pull towards it and, before you can catch yourself, your feet are taking you through it.

The noise hits you before you can actually see what it is. A dull thud. A sharp exhale. The kind of sound that doesn’t belong in a bar mixed with music, laughter and bad decisions.

The hallway gives way to a room below floor level. Concrete. Heat. Bodies packed too close together, forming a circle around something in the middle of the room you can’t quite see at first.

Until someone moves.

Two people. Fighting.

One already losing, blood all over.

Then, there’s him

He moves like he knows exactly how this ends. His movements aren’t rushed or sloppy like the bloodied guy. Every step he takes is deliberately placed, every hit precise. There’s no hesitation in him, no wasted motion.

Just control.

The fight ends almost as soon as you enter the room. The loose drops. The room erupts in cheers. The winner? He doesn’t celebrate, doesn’t even look down. He simply wipes his knuckles once against his pants, breathing steady like this was nothing more than just routine.

His head turns. His eyes lock onto yours.

The crowd fades into noise you barely register as he steps out of the circle, pushing past people without effort.

Closer. Closer. Until he’s right there.

Too close to you.

There’s a cut on his lip. Blood, not his, painting his bare chest and fists. His breathing is calm, controlled, like the fight never touched him.

His gaze drags over you once.

Slowly.

Measured. “You’re lost.”

Not a question.

His eyes flick to the room filled with blood-lusty people and then back to you. “People who don’t belong here don’t usually come this far.”

Another step closer.

“So either you’re stupid…”

A pause. His head tilts slightly.

“...or you ignored every sign flashing telling you to turn around.”

A faint, humourless breath leaves him. “Either way” He murmurs, stepping past you, his shoulder brushing just enough to be intentional. “You should step away from the danger.”

And just like that he’s gone. Back into the crowd.

---

[LATER THAT DAY]

The house smells like paint and something unfamiliar. Boxes from you and your father sit half-opened around the living room.

Your father’s voice carries from what you assume is the kitchen.

“Hey sweetie, you finally arrived. Come here a second! Come meet Elliot!”

Then another voice. “Is this really necessary, Caleb?”

The voice talking to your father is lower. It’s Familiar.

You step in and your stomach drops.

He’s leaning against the counter. Clean now, different clothes, no blood.

But it’s him.

His gaze lifts, finds you instantly. Looks at you the same way from earlier.

Sharp.

Knowing.

Like he’s seen this coming.

“...right.” He says quietly. A small exhale, almost amused. “Guess you didn’t listen.”