"Is that so?" John raised an eyebrow, his voice light but not without sharpness. "Then tell me, where are these dreams sold? I'd like to buy a sack of them, maybe two."
Gabriel did not smile. He leaned back on the chair, his face worn by long shifts and short pay. There was a stiffness in his shoulders that no rest ever seemed to loosen.
"Wouldn't know," he said at last, voice flat as iron. "But ill tell you where they're not. That warehouse. No dream worth chasing is buried under crates and concrete. I already give them my sweat, my time, and what little spine I've got left. For what? The promise that if I work myself into the grave, someone might toss me a bone and call it a raise?"
John smirked. "Work hard enough, maybe you'll be promoted. Who knows? Maybe one day you'll be the manager of the warehouse. With your own car and everything."
He didn't believe it. The words were hollow, even to him, but he said them anyway—like tossing dried leaves into the wind just to watch them drift.
Gabriel laughed then—not a joyful laugh, but the kind that spills from a cracked heart, slow and bitter.
"That's a story for children," he said. "The kind told around campfires to keep fools from running."
John took a sip, watching the foam cling to the inside of his mug. "You speak like a man who's given up. Don't you want wealth? Comfort? A life without struggle?"
Gabriel didn't even blink. He didn't need to think. His answer had long been buried in the marrow of his bones.
"Not really," he said. The words dropped between them like stones into a well.
John frowned, half-playful, half-troubled. "I don't believe you. If someone handed you a fortune—no strings, no curses—you'd turn it down?"
"If it came without strings?" Gabriel shrugged. "I'd take it. Of course I would. Only a fool would spit on such an opportunity. I said I don't care to chase it, that I won't bow my back and chain my soul for the chance of some far-off reward. That's not ambition. That's slavery painted gold. That kind of dream eats men from the inside."
He took a slow drink, swallowing not just beer, but something older and more bitter.
"Most of our troubles—yours, mine—they don't come from some cruel fate or failing of the spirit. They come from empty pockets. No silver, no choices."
John tilted his head, the laughter beginning in his eyes before it touched his mouth.
Gabriel continued, ignoring it for now.
"Last week, my car died. Not wrecked. Just broke. No money to fix it. I walked to work. An hour in the sun, back and forth. Burned the skin off my neck, soaked through my shirt. Dead tired, I still had to endure. That's the world we live in; it's ridiculous. A broken engine, and suddenly you're back in the Stone Age."
Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "You think I'm joking?"
John shook his head, still laughing. "No," he said, "that's why it's funny."
Gabriel tried to frown, to hold onto the irritation. But it slipped from him until something cracked. The corners of his mouth twitched, then rose.
And then they were both laughing, two weary men in a tired world, their joy forged from shared misery, not because their problems were gone…
…sometimes, when named aloud, misery sounds ridiculous.
As the night deepened, their conversation meandered through realms of speculation and absurdity, each theory more fantastical than the last. Time, it seemed, was but a fleeting companion. As the night wore on and their wallets grew lighter, they agreed to part ways—not out of drunkenness or fatigue, but because the owner, a stout man with a perpetual scowl, approached their table. "Closing time," he grumbled, his tone brokering no argument. Reluctantly, Gabriel and John gathered their belongings, stepping out into the cool embrace of the night.
Both friends parted ways, and Gabriel walked the streets alone. The streets were eerily quiet, the usual bustle of the city subdued under the blanket of darkness. Gabriel's steps were unsteady, the effects of the night's indulgence evident in his gait. Yet, amidst the tranquility, something unusual caught his eye—a faint, azure glow flickering in the distance.
The peculiar blue light began to swirl before him. At first, he thought it a trick of the alcohol, but the light grew in intensity and clarity, defying explanation.
"What the? " Gabriel was confused, he knew he was drunk, but not to the point that he would see visions of blue swirly things. He prauded himself for holding his liquor, but what was this situation before him? "Can't be the alcohol". He thought.
Had it been another occasion where he was thinking straight, he would have been long gone. But his usual caution was dulled by the alcohol's influence, and curiosity overcame him. He stepped closer to the ethereal glow..
When he was about to touch the blue light, a strange object shot forth from the light, landing at his feet with a soft thud. It was a dagger, rusted and unremarkable. Yet, as his fingers closed around its hilt, the metal melted into a searing liquid, engulfing his hand in excruciating pain. His vision blurred, and the world around him spun into darkness.
The hot liquid disappeared as if it had been absorbed into his body. The moment he passed out, his body fell toward the blue light, and when his flesh made contact with that light, his body exploded in a red mist, and only his clothes remained.
He vanished without a trace. Gabriel Novar — gone, as if swallowed by the earth itself. All that remained were his clothes, left behind like a silent clue to an unsolvable riddle. His disappearance has haunted the thoughts of loved ones, baffled investigators, and ignited the imaginations of urban legend hunters. What really happened to Gabriel? No one knows. And perhaps... no one ever will.