THE bar was dimly lit, the kind of place that swallowed secrets whole and washed them down with alcohol. Low music hummed in the background, something jazzy and slow, as if it knew men came here not just to drink but to unload the weight of their lives. Charles sat slouched on a leather stool, a bottle of beer already half-empty in front of him. Marcus leaned back comfortably, one arm draped over the back of his chair, while Julian sat opposite them, elbows on the table, eyes sharp and curious.
They weren’t with women tonight. No laughter pitched too high, no perfume lingering in the air. Just three men, drinks sweating on the table, and a story begging to be told.
Marcus was the one who brought it up.
“So,” he said casually, lifting his glass, “let’s talk about this morning.”
Charles
