the velvet crow

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[narrator] The transition was a violent physical jolt. The sun-drenched veranda snapped out of existence, replaced by the hard, unforgiving impact of his apartment floor. He lay there gasping, his chest heaving against the cold steel of the internal cage, the iron portcullis in his throat rattling painfully. The trap door of his mind had slammed shut, leaving him right back where he started— voiceless, empty, and suffocating in the dark. He couldn't stay in the room. The silence there was a predatory thing. He threw on his damp canvas jacket and ventured out into the rain-slicked belly of Oakhaven. The city was a sprawling, mechanical beast. Neon signs bled harsh bars of magenta and electric blue into the low-hanging smog, reflecting off puddles that tasted of sulfur and motor oil. He walked aimlessly, his boots crunching on wet gravel and shattered glass, his collar pulled up high against the biting, industrial wind. He needed a hiding place. He needed to drown the noise in his chest. At the corner of a dark, narrow alleyway near the docks, a flickering, dim purple sign caught his eye. It hummed with a low electric buzz, illuminating a weathered wooden sign hanging from a rusted bracket: The Velvet Crow. He pushed the heavy iron door open, stepping out of the downpour and into a thick haze of clove smoke, stale liquor, and muted conversation. The tavern was dark, cast in deep velvet shadows, tucked away from the cold authority of the neon streets outside. He made his way toward a quiet alcove in the back, looking for an empty table where he could fade into the background. Instead, he found her.