Ethan never imagined he'd one day sit in a shabby European bar, listening to his once-dead friend lecture like a graveyard orator about "human freedom."
The wooden table was carved with scars, the jukebox in the corner was stuck replaying the same rock intro on loop, and rain hammered the streets outside. His friend, in a crumpled coat, spoke with eyes sharp as razors, voice low and rasping, like something dragged out of the soil.
"I'm not a Bureau dog. I'm not a nightmare's slave." His tone was ice. "I stand with humanity. With freedom."
Ethan raised his glass of cheap whiskey, watching it slosh. His grin was pure mockery."Ah, freedom. Lovely word. Usually found at the end of textbooks, or in politicians' speeches. You, though, dragged it straight out of your grave. Bold move."
His friend shot him a look, but said nothing.
"You know," Ethan went on, "the first time I wrote about 'freedom' was a school essay. I wrote, 'Freedom means no homework.' Teacher made me stand in the hall. If I'd known freedom required knives and blood, maybe I'd have penned a different draft."
His friend sighed, sliding a file fragment across the table. Inside: government deals with nightmares, nightmare energy turned into resource, human experiments, erased towns. Cold facts hammered into Ethan's eyes.
"The Bureau doesn't protect humanity," his friend whispered. "They farm it. Like livestock."
Ethan read the words, mouth quirking."So your grand plan is to smash the pigpen? Or torch the farm outright?"
Silence. Then his friend looked up."If the world must burn for humanity to be free, then let it burn."
Ethan laughed so loud even drunks turned their heads."My God. You're funnier than me. The scariest part? Your doomsday sermon sounds more honest than the Bureau's 'protect humanity.'"
He shoved the file back, chugged whiskey, and coughed."Freedom… sure. You think it's a cigarette—just light it up? Idealists like you, die once and still won't shut up. Bravo."
But his friend was granite. "Ethan, you need to choose. Keep being the Bureau's pawn until they toss you—or join me. Join freedom."
Ethan's laughter slowed. Half his face sank into shadow. His gaze was strange, like watching a stage play collapse.
"Know my greatest strength, old friend?" His voice dropped. "I don't believe any side. Bureau, government, nightmares—even you. All liars. Some wear suits, some masks, some…" His eyes flicked at the shabby coat. "…some just look pitiful."
The jukebox screeched its loop.
His friend's jaw tightened, but he stayed silent.
Ethan raised his glass, toasting or mocking—it was hard to tell."To human freedom. May it taste better than this whiskey if it ever arrives."
He downed it, throat scorched, laughter coughing out with bitter irony.