A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 2: Through New Eyes

Waking up in pain was not fun. Every muscle in Michael's body ached, and his head pounded like a drumbeat that refused to fade. For a few disorienting moments, he lay there in the dark, trying to make sense of where he was and why everything hurt so much.

Then it all came back.

The Nightside. The attack. Strangefellows. The basement.

He sat up too quickly, grimacing as pain flared through his ribs. The room was pitch black, but somehow, he could still see—only not with his eyes. He could feel the insects in the walls and floor, their tiny movements creating a web of awareness in his mind. As he focused, he realized something even stranger: he could see through their eyes, their fragmented perspectives stitching together an uncanny map of his surroundings.

It was incredible.

Fascinated despite the ache in his body, he reached out mentally, testing his connection. He sensed a cockroach scurrying near a crack in the wall and nudged it with his will. The insect hesitated, then shifted direction as if responding to his command. Michael let out a shaky breath, equal parts amazed and unnerved.

Before he could explore further, the door to his closet-room creaked open, and Alex appeared, silhouetted against the dim basement light.

"Good, you're awake," Alex said, his voice sharp and to the point. "Time to earn your keep. Dishes first, then the bathrooms. They're a mess."

Michael groaned as he swung his legs off the cot, his body protesting every movement. "You're not even going to ask how I'm feeling?" he muttered.

Alex shrugged. "You're alive, and you're breathing. That's good enough for me. Now move it."

Michael bit back a retort. As much as he wanted to argue, he knew he didn't have any better options. He needed this place, this job—no matter how unpleasant. With a resigned sigh, he stood, grabbed his jacket, and followed Alex upstairs.

The kitchen was a disaster zone. Plates, glasses, and utensils were piled high in the sink, crusted with food and grime. Michael stared at the mountain of dishes, already dreading the task ahead.

Alex tossed him a pair of rubber gloves. "Get to it."

Michael sighed but put on the gloves and started working. The first few plates were the worst—his ribs screamed every time he leaned over the sink, and the stench was almost unbearable. But once he found a rhythm, he pushed through the discomfort, scrubbing and rinsing with a determination born of necessity.

By the time he finished, the dishes were spotless and neatly stacked. Michael stepped back, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Done," he called out.

Alex appeared in the doorway, his arms crossed. His eyes flicked to the clean dishes, and he blinked, his expression unreadable. "Huh," he said after a moment. "Didn't think you'd actually do a decent job."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "What, you thought I'd half-ass it?"

"Most people do," Alex replied with a shrug. "Bathrooms next. Try not to die in there."

Michael groaned but trudged toward the bathrooms, finding them just as disgusting as he'd feared. Sticky floors, grime-covered sinks, and toilets that looked like they hadn't been cleaned in years. Gritting his teeth, he got to work. Every movement sent fresh waves of protest from his sore body, but he pushed through, determined not to give Alex any reason to kick him out.

When Michael finally finished, he stumbled back to the bar, his muscles screaming in exhaustion. Alex was behind the counter, talking to two women who looked like they could tear him in half without breaking a sweat. They were tall, broad-shouldered, and carried themselves with a confidence that bordered on intimidating.

"Michael," Alex said, gesturing to the women. "Meet the Coltrane sisters. They're the bouncers. If anyone tries to get cute around here, they're the ones who handle it."

The taller of the two, a dark-skinned woman with hair braided in intricate patterns, offered him a friendly smile. "I'm Lucy," she said, her voice deep and smooth. "Welcome to the chaos."

Her sister, a wiry woman with sharp green eyes and a faint scar across her cheek, gave him a nod. "I'm Betty. Try not to cause trouble, and we'll get along fine."

Michael nodded, a little intimidated but relieved by their straightforward demeanor. "Nice to meet you both."

"Lunch," Alex said, sliding a plate with a sandwich across the bar. "You earned it."

Michael wolfed down the sandwich, his exhaustion giving way to hunger. As he ate, Alex leaned against the bar, studying him.

"You look like hell," Alex said.

"Thanks," Michael muttered around a mouthful of food. "Real confidence booster."

"Still don't know how you cleaned those bathrooms without puking."

Michael smirked faintly. "Let's just say I've seen worse."

When he finished eating, he leaned back with a satisfied sigh. Alex crossed his arms. "Get some rest. Tonight's going to be busy."

Michael straightened, curiosity piqued. "What kind of busy? I did a bartender course when I was in my twenties. I could help."

Alex raised an eyebrow, smirking. "You? Bartending? You look like a kid who just hit puberty."

Michael bristled, confused and annoyed. "I'm not a kid. I'm older than I look."

"Sure you are," Alex said with a shrug, turning away.

Frowning, Michael excused himself and headed for the bathroom. He needed to see for himself. Standing in front of the cracked mirror, he stared at his reflection—and his stomach dropped.

He looked like a teenager. His face was smooth, unlined, and youthful, his build lean and gangly. It was a face he hadn't seen in years.

"What the hell?" he whispered, his mind racing. This wasn't possible. It couldn't be possible. But here, in the Nightside, it seemed nothing was impossible.

Something had happened to him.

Michael lay on the cot in the dimly lit basement, his thoughts spiraling. It had taken Alex pointing out how young he looked for him to notice what should have been obvious. His face, his body—it wasn't right. It wasn't his. Somehow, he had missed the glaring truth, as though his mind had been deliberately muddled to ignore it.

But who would do that? And why?

Here in the Nightside, the list of possible culprits was as endless as the darkness itself. Witches, demons, ancient gods, creatures who fed on misery or delight—take your pick. And yet, no matter how he turned the problem over in his head, no answers came. He had no enemies, no debts, no reason anyone should have targeted him… not that he knew of.

He sighed and swung his legs off the cot, staring at the cracked mirror mounted on the far wall. The reflection staring back at him was foreign yet familiar: a smooth, youthful face free of the lines and wear of his years. He looked like a teenager, maybe seventeen or eighteen at most.

But I'm not a teenager. I'm in my thirties. The thought made his stomach churn.

Someone or something had done this to him. But who? And more importantly—what else had they done? His memory felt intact, his mind still his own, yet the fact that he hadn't noticed such an obvious change until Alex pointed it out left him uneasy. It was as if a veil had been lifted, and now he couldn't unsee the truth.

Forcing himself away from the mirror, he turned back to the cot and dropped onto it heavily. The springs groaned in protest, but he barely noticed. Pulling his backpack closer, he unzipped it and rummaged through the contents, looking for something—anything—that could anchor him back to a sense of normalcy.

He found a small plastic box of painkillers, tucked into the bag alongside his school supplies. Back home, he'd always kept a supply on hand in case of migraines or bad days during lessons. The thought of school felt like a lifetime ago, but at least the pills were still here. He popped two into his mouth and washed them down with a bottle of water he'd filched from the bar earlier. The bitterness lingered, but he barely noticed.

Digging deeper, he pulled out his laptop and opened it, only to be greeted by a familiar warning: Battery critically low.

"Of course," he muttered, glancing at the charger. The plug was useless here. He groaned, realizing he'd also need an adapter for his phone. Both devices were little more than dead weight for now. Without money—or a solid lead on where to even find an electronics shop in the Nightside—he'd have to wait until his first paycheck from Alex.

"Assuming I make it that far," he muttered darkly, snapping the laptop shut and stashing it back in the bag.

The dull ache in his ribs flared again, and he shifted on the cot, trying to find a comfortable position. His body felt like it had been through a meat grinder, and every movement sent fresh protests from his muscles. The painkillers would take the edge off eventually, but for now, he was left with little choice but to lie there and endure it.

The basement around him was quiet, save for the faint creaks and groans of the building above. Yet even in the silence, he wasn't truly alone. The hum of awareness—the insects in the walls, the spiders in the corners—buzzed faintly at the edges of his mind, an unshakable reminder of whatever had changed within him. It was unsettling but strangely comforting, like a sixth sense he didn't know he'd been missing.

As much as he wanted to unravel the mystery of what had happened to him, his exhaustion made it impossible to focus. His body was demanding rest, and with the nightshift looming ahead, he couldn't afford to ignore it. Alex had made it clear that tonight would be busy, and Michael couldn't afford to screw up—not if he wanted to stay alive.

He lay back, staring at the dark ceiling. The Nightside was a labyrinth of dangers, and he was a stranger without allies, answers, or a clear path forward. But one thing was certain: whoever had done this to him, whatever had been taken or changed, he would figure it out. He had to.

But for now, he let his eyes close, his breathing slowing as the painkillers began to dull the edges of his discomfort. There were too many questions, too many uncertainties—but tonight was another fight entirely, and he needed to be ready for it.

The rest could wait.

Michael managed to steal a few hours of sleep before Alex's shouting from the bar above pulled him back to consciousness. His head felt slightly better—not good, but better. The pounding had eased into a dull throb, and for that, he was grateful.

What really surprised him, though, was the clarity of his new ability. The connection he felt with the insects in the walls, under the floorboards, and skittering through the dark corners of the bar had grown sharper. It wasn't just an awareness anymore; it was a complete sensory connection. He could see through their eyes, hear through their delicate antennae, feel the vibrations of their tiny legs against the world. It was so natural, so effortless, that it felt like breathing.

Still, there wasn't time to marvel at it. Tonight was going to be busy, and Michael had no intention of giving Alex a reason to doubt him.

The bar came alive after dark, filling with a mix of patrons that could only exist in the Nightside. Shimmering spirits, shadowy figures, and beings who barely looked human crowded the space, their voices a cacophony of conversations that Michael struggled to tune out.

Alex wasted no time putting him to work.

"Clean the tables," Alex barked, thrusting a bucket of soapy water into Michael's hands. "And the floors. Then check the stockroom. We're low on vodka, rum, and those disgusting blue drinks the ghouls like."

Michael nodded, taking the bucket without complaint. He scrubbed the tables, wiped down the sticky bar top, and hauled cases of bottles from the basement stockroom until his arms felt like lead. His ribs ached, his muscles burned, and the painkillers had long since worn off, but he gritted his teeth and kept going.

Patrons occasionally stopped him as he worked, their curiosity piqued by the new face.

"Who's the kid?" a green-skinned woman with glowing orange eyes asked Alex, her voice slurring slightly as she leaned against the bar.

"New hire," Alex replied curtly, barely looking up from the drink he was mixing. "Don't get your hopes up. He's still on probation."

A pale man with sharp teeth chuckled from the corner. "What happened to the last one?"

"Don't ask," Alex said flatly, sliding a drink across the bar.

Michael felt their eyes on him as he scrubbed the floors, but he didn't let it bother him. He had a job to do, and the last thing he needed was to screw up in front of an audience.

Another patron, a skeletal figure in a long coat, leaned over the bar and grinned. "Hey, Alex, think the kid'll last?"

"Doubt it," Alex said with a shrug. "But he's got a solid work ethic. We'll see."

Michael glanced up from his bucket, catching Alex's gaze. The man's expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of approval in his eyes—or maybe Michael was imagining it. Either way, he wasn't going to stop now.

By the time the last patrons stumbled out into the eternal 3 a.m. gloom of the Nightside, Michael's body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder. His ribs throbbed, his back ached, and his hands were raw from scrubbing and hauling, but he had made it through the night.

"Not bad, kid," Alex said as he counted the night's earnings behind the bar. "You didn't drop anything, didn't screw up the drinks, and didn't die. That's already better than the last guy."

"Glad I could impress," Michael said dryly, leaning against the bar to catch his breath.

Alex smirked. "Don't get cocky. This was a slow night."

Michael chuckled weakly and shook his head. "Can't wait to see what you call busy."

"You'll find out soon enough," Alex replied. He gestured toward the bar's backroom. "Get some rest. You've earned it."

Michael nodded, his legs screaming in protest as he trudged back toward the basement. He might not have been in perfect shape, but he'd survived his first shift. And in the Nightside, that was something to be proud of.