Page 5

The hall was dark except for a low light burning somewhere deeper in the house. The old wood held little pockets of shadow. The place had settled into itself. He closed the door quietly behind him, already halfway planning to go upstairs without disturbing anyone, when he saw the stripe of warm yellow spilling out from the kitchen.

Antonio was awake, and Hakeem was curious. He set his keys down softly and followed the light.

Antonio sat at the kitchen table in a black T-shirt with his glasses on, one forearm resting near an open notebook. The overhead fixture wasn’t forgiving, but Antonio somehow remained flattered beneath it. There was a mug by his elbow, steam long gone. His hair looked even more out of control than it had earlier, like he’d been running a hand through it without noticing. The kitchen itself was small, with old cabinets, a stove that must have survived The Great Depression, and a window over the sink that reflected the room back at them in dark glass.

Antonio looked up.

“You work late,” he said.

“You’re one to talk.”

A pause.

“Fair observation,” he replied.

Hakeem moved farther in, aware of how he must look: work shirt rumpled, black eyeliner mostly worn away, body carrying the battle scars of working a horror-themed service job. “Sorry. Did I wake your late-night vigil?”

“No.”

Antonio glanced at the clock on the microwave like time itself had briefly annoyed him. “I’m usually up.”

Hakeem dropped his bag on one of the empty chairs and went to the fridge because it felt less awkward to be doing something. “Do you mind if I steal water?”

“If you ask permission to drink water in your own house, I’ll have to ask the landlord to evict you.”

“Our house,” Hakeem corrected automatically with a raised eyebrow, then immediately hated how domestic that sounded.

Antonio’s expression didn’t change, but the silence in the room sharpened. Suddenly, Hakeem could hear the hum of the refrigerator, the weight of the shadows in the corners.

Hakeem grabbed the water filter and filled a glass. “How tragic for you that I’ve already established tenants’ rights.”

“I rent too, please don’t lump me in with the landlord class.”

Hakeem smiled into his water.

He took a long drink, then turned back toward the table. The notebook sat open beside Antonio’s hand, pages filled with tight, neat handwriting. It appeared deliberate, and Hakeem was curious, but he looked away before he got caught staring.

“How was work?” Antonio asked.

Hakeem leaned back against the counter. “Sticky. Loud. Spiritually corrosive. Perfect.”

Antonio waited.

Hakeem realized he would have to explain himself. “It’s a horror bar and immersive theater.”

“I got that part from the name.”

“You’d be surprised how many people hear ‘The Last Cue’ and think jazz lounge.”

“I’m a local. Did anyone survive the night?”

“Some of them.”

That earned him another one of those almost-smiles.

Hakeem kept going. “It’s kind of a hybrid thing. Drinks, performances, audience interaction, themed nights. People come because they want to feel like they’re inside a horror movie, but safely. Which, if you think about it, is basically the vibe of the entire country now.”

“And you bartend?”