[Jaykobell]

He turned on the lights. After a heartbeat, the fluorescent lights reflected against the hardwood tables and chairs, and the countless liquor bottles on the shelves of the bar.

He headed for the bar, and he settled into the silence. Many loved to put music or a show in the background to distract them while they did chores — any sort of background noise worked, really — but he was a completely different animal.

He found solace in complete silence.

[Jaykobell]

His life, his job, they were all so consumed by noise. By screams, by tears, by mumbles, by music, by sirens. All sorts of noises, all sorts of awful sounds. Apart from the voice of a graceful singer now and again, sounds were often so grating, so exhausting. They gave him headaches.

The only noises he accepted in this moment were the rubbing of a cloth on the glass, or a running faucet, or the clinking of bottles against one another.

[Jaykobell]

It was almost soothing, how those sounds came together. He first started by picking up a dirty glass: a small skid on the hardwood bar. He then turned on the faucet, another small skid, and then a small, controlled sound of rushing water. An uneven interruption as the glass moved under the stream, grime washing down the drain. A pinch of washing soap, a small skid as the faucet turned off, and then the best of all: the actual washing, scrubbing and drying.

[Jaykobell]

It was almost like a work of art. Depending on the severity of the grime, of the different drinks that were used, some particles just refused to let go. The sponge, scratching the outside and the inside of the glass gently, often managed to do the job on its own. But after a quick rinse, there were times when he had to unsheathe a claw in order to dislodge a stubborn piece of residue.

But what else was more satisfying but a pristine glass?

[Jaykobell]

Finally, he dried the glass with a cloth, letting it shine under the lights for one final look, to make sure nothing had managed to escape his sharp, deep red eyes. Once satisfied, the glass was put face down on the dedicated shelf, ready for the customer.

He would repeat the motion, the whole almost an art, done with a meticulous hand. There was passion in the task, as mundane as it was to everyone else. But could a bartender use dirty glasses for his patrons?

[Jaykobell]

The answer was no: no respectable bartender would allow a single dirty glass to stain to his shelves. Doing so would be to spit in the face of his patrons. Despicable, those who would think that sort of practice acceptable.

In the midst of his silent cleaning, unpleasant sounds started to interrupt his musings. Sounds from outside: sounds from ruffians. Loud, sudden sounds.

He became distracted for a moment. He stared out the window, looking at the grim streets outside.

[Jaykobell]

Another hunt, surely.

This town truly was the pits of hell. Sometimes he held it in his heart that even this place had the potential to change and get better, but some days, it was difficult, if not near impossible to hold on to that belief. Indeed, it was difficult to think a town filled to the brim with cold-blooded, merciless hunters could change.

But not the entire town was like this. A lot of the town was filled with poor, unfortunate souls who had nowhere else to go.

[Jaykobell]

So many of the folks in this town simply had no choice but to live here. Lack of money, lack of proper education, difficult circumstances, a need to care for the family. So many folks had so many reasons to stay here.

As the local bartender, he knew of their stories. He knew of their struggles, and he was happy to offer a glass on the house, sometimes. One glass was but a petty price to pay to inspire hope in a town that actively worked to destroy it.

[Jaykobell]

He would open the bar soon enough. As soon as the sounds of this new hunt subsided, he would officially turn on the sign, inviting the tormented souls to drink away their fears and sorrow. It was the wise move to make: no one would be running out to the bar while a hunt was happening. Those hunters often lashed out at anyone who got in their way. Even someone innocent might end up being captured for profits if they dared to meddle at the wrong time.

[Jaykobell]

As he finished cleaning the last dirty glass and put it on the shelf, something startled him. His body tensed, and his ears stood up, as loud, frantic knocks on the door echoed through the empty bar. That was one thing about silence: it made loud, sudden noises all the more unpleasant.

He turned to the door, glancing out the windows that were by its sides. Surely, just a hungry hunter who wanted to know if he had a valuable species hiding in his bar.

Granted, they had reasons to assume so.

[Wild Pet Found]

[Jaykobell]

But, no. That wasn't quite it, was it? This individual outside his window: they were no hunter. Their disheveled looks, the grime in their hair, the rags on their shoulders, and the unfiltered fear in their eyes. All things he had seen too many times in his time as a bartender.

And in his time as someone who actively took in refuges, who took in those who needed shelter, and protection.

He opened the door slowly, a wind of fear blowing over him from the other.

[Jaykobell]

"Please," the other begged, their face contorted with terror. "Please, I need help! They're after me!"

He looked them over carefully. Yes, no doubt they were being hunted down: the frills over their head and back, the marks all along their body, the tail, and the bands: they were a valuable species in these parts especially.

"Please!" they begged again, seemingly on the verge of tears, their voice crying out in despair when presented with an answer that was too slow to come.

[Jaykobell]

He quickly moved aside and allowed them to enter the bar.

Almost as soon as they had stepped inside, he toyed with the switches. He flipped them off and on sporadically a few times, and then left them off completely. The bar was quickly plunged into near-complete darkness, the sound of the front door hard and loud as he closed it.

"What happened?" the Onthera asked, and even through the darkness, he could tell that they were staring at him.

[Jaykobell]

Before he could answer, the Onthera started to panic even more. "Why did you turn the lights off?" they asked, fear making their voice crack and rise in volume; something they seemed completely oblivious to. "No... No, are you one of them?! Please, I don't want to—"

"Shh!" His reply came abruptly, his voice stern, but calm. "Please, lower your voice," he asked quietly, his eyes turning to the windows.

His speaking seemed to put the Onthera at ease, even if only by a tiny margin.

[Jaykobell]

"I'm sorry," they apologized, struggling to keep their voice low, but nonetheless making a visible effort to do so. "I just, they were on my tail, on my literal tail, and I just—"

"Shh!"

The sound was hissed again, and movement was heard from outside. Loud, aggressive voices could be picked up from inside. His ears twitched and turned, trying to localize the sounds. It was nigh impossible to make anything out from their location, but the violent tones were universal enough.