Crude Summoning

Hunched over the bar, a tumbler of amber liquid swirling idly in his hand. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror behind the bottles—a face weathered and shadowed, eyes sunken with the weight of choices that never felt like his own. The air around him seemed hefty, stifling, as if the very world pressed against his chest.

The ice clinked softly against the glass as his fingers tightened, not in anger, but in resignation. He could feel it again—the pull. An invisible tether coiled around his soul, dragging him toward the inevitable.

A bad deed for a sliver of hope? He stared at the liquor as if it might offer counsel, but it only gleamed cold and indifferent.

Fine—I'll play the part, but don’t mistake my steps for willing ones, he murmured, his voice low as if confessing. The amber liquid in the glass before him caught the light. He lifted it with steady hands, though his fingers clenched the rim as if holding something far heavier.

A chain may glitter, but it still binds. Without hesitation, he tipped it back, the burn searing his throat, a poor match for the fire kindling in his chest. When the glass hit the table again, empty save for the echo of his decision, he exhaled slowly.