The vehicle traveled along Route 6. As Ethan overtook the wagon ahead, he eased off the accelerator. The bearded driver noticed the car beside him slowing down and adjusted his hat.
The curtains of the carriage window parted, revealing a young Amish girl who smiled faintly, her face radiating innocence.
"Rebecca Bowman."
Ethan looked at her calmly, then pressed the accelerator and drove on.
A few minutes later, he turned onto a private road. After walking a few hundred meters, he arrived at a single-family house.
The house sat about twenty meters from the lake, surrounded by trees. The small plot of land was private property, left to Ethan by old Morgan.
Listening to the birds and gazing at his home ahead, Ethan didn't go inside immediately. Instead, he walked to the small wooden dock by the lake and sat cross-legged.
Pulling a cigarette from his pocket, he lit up and smoked in silence, staring at the shimmering water. When he finished, he pressed the cigarette butt against the wooden planks, exhaling a final puff of smoke—almost like a farewell to the past.
He turned his palm over, revealing a glass tube filled with red liquid. Pulling out the soft stopper, he sniffed it. No scent.
Without hesitation, he tilted his head back and drank it.
The liquid burned as it traveled down his throat, a searing heat spreading through his spine and into the back of his head.
A sudden wave of fire coursed through his body, and without a second thought, Ethan plunged into the lake with a —plop.—
The water surrounded him, cool and soothing against the inferno inside. He remained underwater for a long time, only surfacing once the burning sensation subsided.
Gasping, he swam to shore and stripped off his soaked clothes. Since this was his own private retreat, he had no fear of being seen.
Bouncing on the balls of his feet a few times, he noticed something strange. His body felt unusually light, his movements fluid and powerful. Glancing down, he realized his abdomen—once carrying a slight layer of fat—had become lean and firm.
Excited, he clenched his fists and approached a nearby tree. He threw a punch.
A muffled —thud— echoed as his knuckles met the bark. He held his stance for a few seconds, feeling the force and speed of the strike, before pain radiated through his fist.
He looked down at his split knuckles and smirked.
Gathering his scattered clothes, he made his way toward the house.
It was a typical country-style wooden home with an open kitchen connected to the living room. Further inside, there were two rooms: one large and one small. The original owner had filled the smaller room with antiques, while the larger room was fully furnished, complete with a wooden bed that offered a clear view of the lake.
After showering, Ethan set his alarm clock for 7 PM, pulled the quilt over himself, and fell asleep.
The Forge Bar
The alarm's shrill ring jolted Ethan awake. He reached out to silence it, stretched, and yawned before heading to the living room. His stomach rumbled.
Opening the fridge, he found nothing but beer and soft drinks. A thin layer of dust covered the kitchen utensils. The previous owner clearly wasn't much of a cook.
With no other choice, Ethan changed clothes and drove into town.
Minutes later, neon lights flickered above the roadside buildings. One sign stood out—The Forge Bar. Also known as Davis's Bar.
Ethan parked, stepped out, and pushed the door open.
The bar was quiet, with a handful of tables near the counter and a pool table and jukebox against the far wall. Behind the bar, a gray-haired African-American man polished a glass with a towel. It was still early, and apart from him, the place was empty.
Ethan pulled out a high wooden stool and sat at the bar. The bartender tossed the towel over his shoulder and eyed him with curiosity.
—Are you a tourist?—
—Why do you say that?— Ethan ran his fingers over the wooden counter.
The bartender gestured with a nod.
—Bartender's memory. I know most people in this town.—
—Ethan Morgan. New cop in Banshee. I officially start tomorrow.—
—Sugar Bates. Owner and bartender of this joint. Just call me Sugar.—
Sugar grabbed a glass, pulled a half-full bottle of bourbon from the shelf, poured a measure, and slid it across the counter.
—This one's on the house. Welcome to Banshee.—
Ethan nodded in thanks, took a small sip, then downed the rest. He set the glass down and signaled for another before ordering a grilled steak.
It had to be said—Sugar knew his craft. The steak was cooked to perfection.
As Ethan cut into his meal, his gaze drifted to the golden belt hanging on the wall. He pointed at a nearby photo with his knife. It showed a younger Sugar, wearing boxing gloves, knocking out an opponent in the ring.
Sugar followed his gaze.
—That's me. Lightweight champion.—
Ethan chewed thoughtfully.
—How many rounds did it take?—
—Eight. The guy was a southpaw. Tougher to handle.—
Sugar's eyes gleamed with nostalgia.
—That was a title fight. You know how long I held that belt?—
Ethan put down his fork and met his gaze.
—Eighteen months!— Sugar said proudly.
Ethan raised his glass in a toast.
Maybe it was his enhanced physique, but after a few glasses of whiskey, he felt only a slight warmth in his face.
As the night deepened, the bar filled with people. Ethan finished his meal, pushed his plate aside, and watched the crowd while sipping his drink.
By the pool table, a blonde beauty in a short black skirt swayed to the jukebox's rhythm, her long, pale legs moving in time with the music.
In most bars, a woman like that would attract company, yet no one approached her. She was only met with stolen glances.
Then, as she turned, Ethan recognized her—the Amish girl from the carriage.
He raised his glass toward her.
From behind the bar, Sugar noticed and gave a quiet warning.
—Some women are off-limits. They're like roses with thorns—even for a cop.—
Ethan smirked.
—Too many debts, too many problems—it all blends together in the end.—
Rebecca Bowman approached, sliding onto the stool beside him. Ethan signaled Sugar for another drink.
With a sigh, Sugar shook his head and poured whiskey into her glass before moving away to serve other customers.
After a brief exchange of words, Ethan and Rebecca shared their names.
When Ethan finished his drink, he leaned toward her, voice low and inviting.
—Want to get some fresh air outside? My truck's out front.—
Rebecca met his gaze, a faint smile on her lips. Wordlessly, she grabbed her purse and walked toward the door.
Ethan tossed a few bills under his glass and followed.
Outside, the crisp night air carried a hint of anticipation. They walked silently toward his Ford F-150, the quiet tension between them almost palpable.
The cold made them shiver slightly as they stopped by the truck. Rebecca turned to him, her eyes reflecting the faint moonlight.
No words were needed. They both knew what would happen next.