In a bar in the middle of the city, a young man with disheveled brown hair and eyeglasses hanging loosely on his face sat at a bar. His eyes looked dilated, evidence that the alcohol he was chugging down wasn't his first.
"She's mine," he mumbled to himself, dropping the glass only to pick it up and gulp again, not bothered that it spilled on his shirt.
The shirt could tell a tale or two if allowed on a podcast about the better days it had seen. The stain of oil, liquor, and sweat it had endured needed to be studied.
"Mila..." he mumbled again, trying to stand but only fell over his chair once more. "How?"
The news came on, and everyone at the bar tuned in, everyone who had been waiting for the news about the Montclair wedding. A very private wedding only a few elites were allowed to attend.
"That's her? Zyran's wife?" One of the men at the bar pointed at the girl who looked like a fairy on the television.
