16-17

Chapter 16: The Bar  

 *Clang, clang, clang—*  

 Drunk out of their minds, Cassie and her friends found their bodies almost entirely unresponsive.  

 Standing still, they stared blankly at the approaching figure. As it drew nearer, even their dulled brains began to register its imposing height and unnervingly slender frame.  

 These two seemingly contradictory features—towering and narrow—combined flawlessly in the figure before them.  

 A large trench coat and fedora obscured most of its body. Through the gaps between the garments, Cassie and her friends could barely make out shadowed and indistinct facial features under the hat’s brim.  

 In the background, the steady clangs grew louder with each step the figure took, as though the sound emanated from within it.  

 Under normal circumstances, encountering such a bizarre scene would have sent Cassie and her friends fleeing in terror, even if they were given the courage of ten people.   

But in their drunken haze, they had lost nearly all ability to discern danger. So much so that, as the figure walked stiffly past them, one gaunt drunkard with a nose piercing couldn’t resist reaching out to tug at the oversized trench coat.  

 The coat shifted, and for a brief moment, a twisting shadow flickered underneath.  

 *Clang!*  

 The figure froze mid-step. Its indistinct features seemed to pause on Cassie and her companions before it turned its head slightly and resumed its jerky stride forward.  

 “Bert, you’re such an idiot. Why’d you mess with them?”  

 “I thought for sure you were about to get decked,” another companion teased.  

 Watching the figure disappear into the distance, the group, still unaware of the oddity they had encountered, chuckled and began ribbing Bert, the man who had pulled at the coat.  

 “I’ve never been beaten up by someone over six and a half feet tall before,” Bert said with a grin, baring a mouthful of rotting teeth. He shrugged, entirely unconcerned.  

 “Hey, guys,” one of their friends, Ian—the flamboyant one—spoke up, turning his head toward where the figure had vanished. “I think that tall guy just walked into a bar?”  

 The drunken banter paused for a moment as Ian’s words sank in.  

 “A bar?”   

“You’re hammered, Ian,” someone scoffed. “There’s no bar near Compton Street. You’d get robbed blind around here.”  

 “I swear I saw it!” Ian insisted, shaking his head. “There was even a neon sign—a burning skull on it.”  

 The conviction in his voice gave them pause.  

 “Could he be telling the truth?” one friend, who got along well with Ian, began to waver.   

“If there’s actually a bar around here, that’d be so cool,” Bert chimed in, excitement lighting up his gaunt features.  

 “I’ve gotta see this for myself. What kind of bar would dare set up shop in Compton Street?”  

 Without waiting for a reply, Bert tossed his greasy hair back and staggered off in the direction Ian had pointed.  

 “It’s real!”  

 A few seconds later, Bert’s astonished voice echoed from the narrow alleyway. Soon after, his head popped out from behind a corner, his nose ring glinting under the streetlamp’s flickering light.  

 “Hey! It’s right here!” he yelled back at his companions.  

 ---  

 Inside his apartment, Allen arched a brow as he observed the scene unfolding on his screen. His expression was earnest as he offered a “blessing” to the clueless drunkards depicted in the image.  

 “I hope you all enjoy what I’ve prepared for you,” he murmured.  

 Even as he made the remark, Allen remained focused on maintaining control over the plot.  

 After all, this time the participants in his story were a group of drunkards, far from the ideal cast. Who knew what kind of unscripted chaos they might cause?   

“In hindsight, I should’ve chosen more sensible characters for this script,” Allen muttered.  

 When drafting the script, he had opted for drunkards to enhance the story’s tension and align with the bar’s sinister vibe. Yet, he’d overlooked the unpredictability of actual drunken behavior.  

 Unlike in movies, where actors can convincingly *pretend* to be drunk, the **[Script Evolution]** system ensured these characters were authentically inebriated, no acting required.   

This level of realism, while immersive, created its own challenges for Allen.  

 Fortunately, there were ways to mitigate the chaos. By expending **[Plot Points]**, Allen could subtly steer the narrative in the right direction. For example, he had implanted Ian’s memory of the bar earlier, nudging the story forward at the cost of 20 **[Plot Points]**.  

 “From now on, I need to create a dedicated character to push the story forward, so I don’t have to waste **[Plot Points]** every time,” Allen resolved silently.   

With that, he returned his focus to the screen. The fragmented system interface continued to display the unfolding story.  

 ---  

 “Are we really going in there?”  

 Standing in the alley, Cassie hesitated as she stared at the bar’s flickering neon sign. The image of the burning skull did little to ease her nerves, sobering her slightly.  

 “We don’t even know anything about this place,” she murmured, uneasily.  

 “Don’t be such a buzzkill, Cassie. That’s not cool at all,” Bert snapped, irritation flashing across his gaunt features.  

 “If you’re too scared to go in, then leave. I’m not chickening out,” he said with a sneer, puffing out his bony chest and swaggering toward the bar’s entrance.  

 ---  
*(End of Chapter)*  

*Chapter 17: Retro Style *

"I like men like you, brave enough to court disaster."

Through the fragmented images from the system, Allen observed Bert's behavior closely.

A genuine smile spread across Allen’s face as he looked at him with satisfaction.

Don’t let Bert’s rough looks fool you; the man knows how to create a scene. And the best part? He does it without Allen needing to use any *[Plot Points]* to prompt him.

...

“…”

As they watched Bert walk into the bar, the group exchanged glances, unsure of what to do next.

Then, one by one, they followed him inside. After all, no one wanted to be labeled a loser by Bert.

As the others entered the bar, the narrow alley soon became eerily quiet, leaving Cassie standing alone.

“W-wait for me…”

Cassie looked up at the neon sign shaped like a flashing skull above the bar’s entrance. An inexplicable unease spread through her as she glanced back at the pitch-black surroundings of the alley. With a startled cry, she dashed toward the bar’s entrance.

...

“Hahahaha…”

“Cheers! Cheers!”

“My head’s been hurting lately, like something’s crawling around inside.”

“Maybe it’s time you got a new head!”

“Nah, I’m kind of attached to this one.”

“Long time no see. Where’ve you been?”

“Mexico. They’ve got good food there.”

Inside the bar, a wave of noise and excitement enveloped Cassie.

The air was thick with the scent of smoke and alcohol. Dim, yellowish lights blended with ‘80s country rock music, as though time had rewound to that wild, reckless era.

Under the influence of the atmosphere—and perhaps the alcohol in the air—Cassie’s initially cautious expression softened into a faint smile.

“So it’s just a regular bar after all.”

Through her hazy vision, she didn’t notice the subtle changes happening to her appearance under the dim light.

Her sleek, modern evening dress morphed into an exaggerated, padded-shoulder blouse.

The black stockings on her legs were replaced by an ‘80s-style mini skirt and leggings.

Even her makeup transformed: bold eyeshadow, permed hair puffed up like steel wool, and oversized earrings.

Despite these drastic changes—a complete throwback to over two decades ago—Cassie herself remained oblivious.

“That guy…”

Scanning the lively crowd in the bar with dreamy eyes, Cassie spotted the tall figure she had encountered earlier. He sat quietly in a corner, with three glasses of beer in front of him, starkly contrasting with the bar’s raucous atmosphere.

“Cassie, I knew a restless bitch like you couldn’t resist coming in here.”

Before she could take a closer look, a hand tapped her shoulder from behind, accompanied by a teasing laugh.

“Don’t think I don’t know what’s on your mind, Susan! Unless I step aside, you’ll never take my place!”

Cassie shot back, equally combative, as she turned to see a familiar face.

Just like Cassie, Susan was also dressed in full ‘80s retro fashion: bold eyeshadow, a silver mini-dress, and glossy black stockings contrasting sharply with her skin tone.

Yet, the glaringly odd change in attire didn’t seem to faze either of them. They continued their sharp-tongued banter without a second thought.

“...Fine.”

After a bout of lively bickering, Susan finally grabbed Cassie’s arm and pulled her toward the bar counter.

“Bert and the others are drinking over there.”

Letting herself be dragged along, Cassie weaved through the noisy bar crowd with Susan.

Oddly, she couldn’t shake the feeling that whenever they passed a table, the conversations would quiet down, and the patrons would stare at her with astonished eyes.

But whenever she turned to look, the lively chatter resumed as if nothing had happened, leaving her unsure if it was all in her head.

“What’ll it be, ma’am?”

Amid this strange unease, Cassie reached the bar counter and spotted Bert and his group.

They too were decked out in full ‘80s style: acid-washed jeans, aviator jackets, and voluminous hairstyles that would be laughably outdated today but were the epitome of cool back then.

“A martini, please.”

Cassie took in their outfits without batting an eye and turned to the bartender to place her order.

“Sure thing, ma’am.”

The bartender, a gaunt, pale man who looked even frailer than Bert, put down the glass he was polishing and answered weakly. He seemed so fragile that it wouldn’t have been surprising if he collapsed right then and there.

Under Cassie’s watchful gaze, the bartender shakily picked up a bottle and began preparing her drink.

“I’m going to the restroom.”

At that moment, a man at the bar—a tipsy Black guy—stood up and kissed Susan on the cheek.

“Don’t miss me too much, baby.”

“Make it quick, darling,” Susan replied with a playful smile before slyly winking at Bert, who was sitting nearby.

“Bitch,” Cassie muttered under her breath, catching Susan’s flirtatious gesture.

“Here’s your martini, ma’am.”

The skeletal bartender slid Cassie’s drink across the counter, his bony hand trembling slightly.

“Of course, babe. How could I leave you alone for too long?”

Martin grinned drunkenly, smacking Susan’s backside, earning a coquettish squeal. Satisfied, he staggered off toward the restroom.

As he passed one of the tables, a patron stood up and began following him, head lowered, step for step.

Martin noticed but didn’t think much of it, assuming the man was just another customer heading to the restroom.

Letting out a heavy, alcohol-laden belch, Martin entered the restroom with the follower trailing closely behind.

---

(End of Chapter)