With a flick of his thumb and a spark from his Zippo's flint, he set the tip of his cigarette ablaze, a crimson ember against the dark of the night. The cobalt blues of his eyes slid shut as he took a drag, the tendrils of smoke weaving a veil of momentary respite. The cacophony of voices, a medley of shouts and cheers, faded to a distant hum, as if muted by the eerie stillness that clung to him. The amber liquid, sharp as a blade, coursed down his throat, leaving a lingering bitterness that matched the taste of regret. A gnarled hand, weathered by time and wear, moved to knead the tension from his shoulder, a futile attempt to ease the irritation that gnawed at him. A sudden intrusion shattered his brief detachment, a weighty palm landing on his shoulder like a leaden omen. The touch yanked him from his sanctuary of smoke and whiskey, back into a world he'd grown weary of. He pivoted, his gaze colliding with the security guard—a mountain of a man, a portrait of displeasure etched onto his features. Straightening, Cathan Nullian winced, a muted groan slipping past his lips as he retrieved his wallet. The guard's scowl, a testament to his disdain, focused not just on Cathan, but also on the sprawled, bloodied figure that had become an unfortunate centerpiece to the night's drama. A cascade of bills fluttered onto the bar, a hasty offering to the gods of order and decency that were the owners. Slowly, he turned away from the bar's dimly lit confines, the lingering glare of the guard like an icicle tracing the contours of his departure. Another night, another encounter with chaos. Cathan cursed under his breath, his thoughts spiraling as he navigated the labyrinth of his own frustration. The voices of philosophers long since passed echoed in the corridors of his mind, each word a taunt, a reminder of the precipice he danced upon. ‘Those who stare into the abyss’, he recalled, ‘should take heed lest the abyss also stares into them.’ The specter of self-awareness loomed large in those words, an uninvited guest at his personal pity party. But Cathan, he knew, had long since tumbled over that precipice. He had ventured beyond the boundaries of mere existence on the day he drew his first breath. The cigarette glowed like a dying star, casting a dim halo around him as he strode into the night, the rhythm of his footfalls a somber dirge. Each step, a footfall into the shadows, mirrored the cadence of his thoughts—restless, unyielding, unforgiving. The country's heartbeat pulsed around him, a symphony of life that played out against the backdrop of his own internal tempest.