CROSSED LINES

Jack left the office late, his mind still buzzing with the remnants of the day’s work. He had stayed behind to finish a report that absolutely couldn’t wait, and by the time he shut down his computer, the building was empty and silent. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything substantial since lunchtime, just a cup of coffee but the thought of heading home to a lonely apartment wasn’t appealing. Instead, he found himself veering towards the small pub down the street, the one he frequented when he needed to unwind.

The bar was dimly lit, with a few regulars slouched over their drinks. Jack slipped into a seat at the bar, ordered a whiskey, and took a long, slow sip. The burn of the alcohol felt good, numbing the edges of his thoughts, which were starting to fray under the weight of exhaustion.

As he sat there, lost in the amber glow of his drink, he didn’t realize how much time had passed. By the time he finally decided to head home, he was tipsy, but not quite