Chapter 1: The Bottom of the Bottle

Chapter 1: The Bottom of the Bottle

The air in "The Dregs" was thick enough to chew, a foul cocktail of stale beer, unwashed bodies, and the faint, crackling scent of ozone that always clung to places where magic was used poorly. For Chase Ambrose, it was the smell of home. He stared into the amber depths of his whiskey, watching the distorted reflection of a man he no longer recognized. Tired, haunted grey eyes stared back from a face that was all sharp angles and a three-day beard.

His knuckles throbbed, a dull, satisfying ache from a disagreement settled half an hour ago. The winnings, a pathetic handful of crumpled bills, sat on the sticky bar top, already earmarked for the next bottle. Around him, a chaotic shimmer, like heat haze off asphalt, distorted the air. It was his magic, the raw, untamed power that oozed from him like a festering wound. Most couldn't see it, but they could feel it. It was why his corner of the bar was always empty.

Desire: His only goal was simple, profound, and seemingly unattainable: silence. The kind of quiet that only came at the bottom of a bottle, a temporary truce in the war raging inside his head.

Obstacle: That peace was shattered by a shadow falling over his table. A mountain of a man, with a face like a slab of raw meat and fists that looked like cinder blocks, loomed over him.

"You're in my seat," the man grunted, his voice a low rumble.

Chase didn't look up. "Funny. Didn't see your name on it." He took a slow sip of his whiskey. The burn was a familiar friend.

"And that's my money," the man added, gesturing a thumb at the crumpled bills.

"You lost the bet," Chase said, his voice flat. "That's how this works. You can try again tomorrow."

The man’s meaty hand slammed down on the table, rattling the glass. "I don't feel like waiting. Get up. Now."

Here it was. The inevitable friction of his existence. Trouble, like a stray dog, always found him. A familiar, dangerous hum started in the base of his skull—the Itch. The raw power inside him, always begging for release. He ignored it, clenching his left hand under the table, his thumb rubbing the jagged, puckered scar that split his palm. A memento from the day his world ended.

Action: "Look, pal," Chase sighed, finally raising his exhausted eyes. "I've had a long day. You've had a long day. Why don't you go find another chair, and I'll even buy you a drink to cry into."

The man’s face purpled. It was the wrong thing to say, but it was the only thing Chase knew how to say. Sarcasm was his shield, his sword, and his suicide note, all rolled into one.

The cinder block fist flew towards his face.

Chase tilted his head just enough for the blow to glance off his cheekbone, a starburst of pain exploding behind his eye. He tasted copper. The impact sent his stool skittering backward, and he hit the floor hard. The Itch roared. It was no longer a hum; it was a scream.

No, he thought, a desperate, silent plea. Not here.

The big man stalked forward, cracking his knuckles. The other patrons of The Dregs, a collection of low-level warlocks, back-alley alchemists, and mundane thugs, either backed away or watched with predatory glee. No one was going to help. They all knew the shimmering heat haze around Chase meant danger.

The man kicked out, aiming for his ribs.

Result: This time, Chase didn’t dodge. The Itch won. He threw up his scarred left hand, not to block, but to unleash. There was no incantation, no complex gesture. He just… pushed.

The air itself detonated.

It wasn't a fire or a bolt of lightning. It was simpler. Cruder. A wave of pure, kinetic force erupted from his palm, a silent shockwave that turned the air to glass. The big man was lifted off his feet as if hit by a speeding truck, flying backward through the air. He smashed through two tables, sending splinters and cheap liquor everywhere, before slamming into the far wall with a sickening crunch. He slid to the floor, unconscious and broken.

Silence descended upon the bar, thick and heavy. Every eye was on Chase. But it wasn't a look of awe. It was fear. The cheap lights overhead flickered violently, and the bottles behind the bar rattled on their shelves. The chaotic aura around him pulsed, now visible to even the most mundane eyes as a shimmering distortion. He had won, but the victory felt like ash in his mouth.

The bartender, a wiry man with a face full of cheap cybernetics, pointed a trembling, metallic finger at the door. "Out, Ambrose. Now. And don't come back."

Chase pushed himself to his feet, his cheek throbbing. He didn't bother grabbing the money. It was worthless now. He limped towards the exit, the patrons parting before him like he was a leper. He pushed the door open and stumbled into the rain-slicked alley, the foul stench of garbage replacing the stink of stale beer.

Turning Point: He leaned against the cold, wet brick, the rain doing little to cool the fire under his skin. This was his life. A cycle of self-medication and self-destruction, punctuated by moments of volatile violence that pushed him further and further into the dark. He closed his eyes, the image of a laughing girl with his same grey eyes flashing behind them. Lily. The scar on his palm burned with the memory.

"That was quite the display."

The voice was calm, cultured, and utterly out of place in this grimy alley. Chase’s eyes snapped open.

Standing a few feet away, untouched by the downpour, was a man who didn't belong. He wore a perfectly tailored suit of charcoal grey that probably cost more than Chase had ever earned in his life. His black hair was slicked back, shot through with distinguished silver at the temples. He appeared to be in his early forties, but his eyes… his eyes were ancient, holding a weariness that made Chase’s own exhaustion feel like a child’s tantrum.

Surprise: "Who the hell are you?" Chase growled, pushing himself off the wall. "And how are you not getting wet?"

The man smiled, a thin, humourless expression. "A simple ward. Trivial, really. Unlike your… outburst. Raw. Unfocused. You shattered every piece of glass in a three-block radius, you know."

Chase froze. He hadn’t even realized. The Itch had gotten stronger.

"I am here to offer you a proposition, Chase Ambrose," the man continued, his voice cutting through the sound of the rain.

And then the sound stopped.

Completely.

Chase blinked. The fat raindrop that had been rolling down the rusted fire escape beside him hung suspended in mid-air. The steam rising from a nearby sewer grate was frozen into a static cloud. The distant city hum had vanished, replaced by an absolute, profound silence that was more deafening than any noise. He looked at the man, whose suit was the only thing in the entire world that still seemed to hold its natural motion.

The man took a step forward, his expensive shoes making no sound on the wet pavement.

"I lead an organization," he said, his voice the only thing that existed in the frozen moment. "We have a need for individuals with… unique talents. You are wasting yours at the bottom of a bottle. You crave oblivion, but all you're finding is a slow, messy death."

Chase stared, his mind struggling to process the impossible sight. This wasn't just magic. This was absolute, effortless dominion over reality itself. The power radiating from this man made his own chaotic aura feel like a candle next to a supernova.

"I can offer you a purpose," the man said, stopping directly in front of him. "A place where your power can be a tool, not a curse. A chance to do something other than break things and mourn what you've lost." He paused, his ancient eyes boring into Chase's soul.

"Or," he added, with a hint of something that might have been pity, "I can offer you a much, much faster way to the grave you so clearly seek. The choice, for now, is yours."