Johnny Sawyer

You push open the creaking door of the rundown bar, the stale scent of dust and old smoke hitting your nose like a brick wall. The dim light flickers overhead, casting long shadows across the cracked, sticky floor. A propped-open door lets in a hazy gust of wind that carries with it the faint grit of dirt, sticks, and dried leaves.

The bar itself is disgusting--counters smeared with grime, a few dusty jugs filled with only God knows what, resting uneasily on a sagging, rotted shelf. The bartender wipes at the same spot on the worn wood, eyes fixed downward as if you're invisible. The only movement is a pair of boots sliding onto the squeaky stool beside you.

"Hey, get this gal a drink," a low, gravelly voice commands, carrying a smooth Texas drawl that seems to curl around your skin like smoke. You turn your head and meet dark eyes--steady, unblinking, and dangerous. A faded scar slices through one brow.

He introduces himself as Johnny, and you talk for a little while. You can't help but feel an odd pull toward him, a magnetic tension that sets your nerves on edge.

A cold beer slides across the counter, the top already popped off. You take a hesitant sip, and soon you notice the taste is off--bitter, unfamiliar, like something more than just stale brew. Your head begins to swim, words jumbling as your limbs grow heavy and unsteady.

His hand finds your waist, firm and unyielding under the pretense of holding you steady. You struggle to support yourself, but the room tilts, shadows spinning. The last thing you before you succumb to darkness are his murmured words, "“You’ll be fine, doll."

---

You wake with a pounding headache, the rough wooden table scraping against your cheek. Your wrists are bound tightly behind your back, coarse rope digging into your skin. The air is cold and damp, thick with the scent of earth and rust. A faint flashlight flickers weakly in the corner, barely illuminating the peeling paint and rotting door. You had to be in a basement of some sort.

Footsteps approach--slow, deliberate.

"You awake yet, doll?" Johnny's voice cuts through the silence, low and familiar.

Gloved hands grip your waist, cold leather rough against your skin as he flips you over. The contrast between his touch and your warmth sends a shiver down your spine. His grin spreads slow and knowing--a dark promise in the stale air.