The air inside Spectrum is still and expectant, like a stage before the actors arrive. I stand in the center of the empty bar, eyes closed, palms outstretched. This is my ritual—this quiet communion with the space before the emotional chaos of the night begins.

  I breathe deeply, sending my awareness outward in concentric circles. First, the immediate space around me, cleansing any residual emotional imprints from the previous night. Then outward to the corners of the room, setting intentions for balance and harmony. Finally, beyond the walls, a gentle invitation to those who need what Spectrum offers—not just alcohol, but emotional shelter.

  Opening my eyes, I survey my domain. The bar gleams under the soft blue lights, bottles arranged precisely to my specifications. Not alphabetically or by type as most bartenders prefer, but by the emotional resonance of their contents. Whiskeys that encourage contemplation stand apart from tequilas that spark celebration. Vodkas that smooth anxiety are placed at eye level, easy to reach during the weekday rush of stressed professionals.

  I move behind the bar, running my fingers along the polished wood. My parents would never have imagined this for me. They had envisioned a Council position, perhaps even a seat one day for their prodigiously talented son. "An empath serves the community," my father used to say, voice full of quiet certainty. "Your gift is meant for greater things than mixing drinks."

  I smile faintly at the memory. My father never understood that a bar is the perfect parish for an emotional minister. Here, I can heal small wounds before they become scars, guide the lost toward momentary clarity, all without the Council's rigid structures and endless political games.

  I remove a small notebook from beneath the counter—leather-bound, its pages filled with my neat handwriting. Customer notes, not about preferences for olives or twists, but emotional patterns. Sarah's visits always coincide with work disappointments, best addressed with drinks that carry notes of resilience. Michael comes in when the anniversary of his mother's death approaches each spring, needing not consolation but someone to silently acknowledge his grief.

  Tonight is a Friday, which means the emotional landscape will be particularly vibrant—weekend freedom colliding with workweek fatigue, creating a volatile but exhilarating energy. I've created three new infusions specifically for the occasion, each designed to smooth particular emotional dissonances.

  Zoe will arrive soon, followed by Miguel. The spell of solitude will break, and the performance will begin. I'm not just a bartender; I'm a conductor, an alchemist, a guardian of equilibrium. The Council might see my work as trivial, but I know better. In a world of grand magics and power politics, sometimes the most important magic happens in the smallest moments of human connection.

  I pocket my notebook and begin slicing fruit for garnishes, my movements precise and practiced. Another night at Spectrum awaits, another opportunity to create a sanctuary where emotions can flow freely without drowning anyone in their current.

  The air inside Spectrum pulses with the electric blue of anticipation tonight. I feel it the moment I step behind the bar—a living current running through the Friday crowd, vibrating with possibility. Weekend freedom, fresh paychecks, and the promise of connection have everyone's emotions running high, their auras bleeding into one another like watercolors.

  I breathe it all in, letting the emotional landscape wash over me. This is my element—this beautiful chaos of human feeling.

  "You're late, Reed," Zoe calls from the service well, her irritation a spiky orange that contradicts her easy smile. "Miguel's been drowning."

  Miguel flips her off without looking up from the cocktail shaker, his concentration a steady green-gold as he pours perfect measures. "I'm good, boss."

  "Sorry. Supplier meeting ran long." I tie my apron, already sinking deeper into the room's emotional tapestry. A flash of red jealousy from the corner booth where a woman watches her date chat with the server. Murky brown disappointment at the high-top near the window—someone got passed over for promotion. And at the bar, a cluster of electric yellow excitement as friends celebrate something significant.

  I reach for that yellow first, letting it guide me as I approach their end of the bar. "What are we celebrating tonight?"

  The woman in the center—radiating the brightest yellow—beams at me. "I just closed my first major client as partner!"

  "That calls for something special." I don't consult a menu or ask preferences. Instead, I feel for the undercurrents beneath her joy—pride tinged with relief, a hint of vindication. I craft a champagne cocktail with a twist of bitter orange and rosemary—effervescent celebration with a backbone of perseverance.

  When I slide it across the bar, her first sip confirms what I already know. Her eyes widen slightly, pleasure pulsing through her aura. "This is perfect. How did you know?"

  I wink. "Just a good guess."

  It's never just a guess, of course. But no one needs to know about my particular talent—the ability to not just sense emotions but to shape and influence them. In another era, they might have burned me as a witch. In this one, I've built a thriving business around it instead.

  The next two hours flow like this—reading the room, crafting drinks that speak to what people are feeling rather than what they order, subtly adjusting the emotional temperature when needed. When the jealousy in the corner booth starts spiking dangerously, I send over a round of drinks designed to soothe and center. The woman's red aura softens to pink, then to a more comfortable lavender as her focus shifts from her date to her friends.

  By midnight, Spectrum hums with the particular harmony I've cultivated—a balance of excitement and ease, where everyone feels slightly more themselves than when they walked in. This is my magic, subtle but potent. I don't change what people feel—I just help them feel it more completely, more honestly. Sometimes that means amplifying joy. Sometimes it means guiding anger toward resolution rather than explosion.

  "You've got that look again," Zoe says, bumping my shoulder as we restock the garnish station. Her aura shimmers with affectionate amusement. "The one where you're conducting an invisible orchestra."

  "Just making sure everyone's having a good time."

  "Yeah, well, your good time is cutting into my tips. Table six has been nursing the same drinks for an hour because they're too busy having deep conversations."

  I laugh. "I'll send some thirst their way."

  "You're a weird dude, Reed."

  She doesn't know the half of it.

  The woman at the end of the bar radiates misery like a fever. Most patrons wouldn't notice, given how carefully she maintains her composure—spine straight, makeup flawless, smile mechanical when appropriate. But to me, her emotional signature is a storm of deep violets and muddy browns, spiking occasionally with flashes of red self-recrimination.

  I finish serving a group of college students, then move toward her, preparing a drink she hasn't ordered. The base is a botanical gin I've infused myself with lavender and lemon balm—subtle calming agents that work on both mundane and magical levels.

  "I didn't order another," she says as I place the pale purple cocktail before her.

  "This one's on the house," I reply, pitching my voice to carry beneath the ambient noise of the bar. "Rough day?"

  She looks up, startled by my perception. "That obvious?"

  "Only to some," I say with a gentle smile.

  Her name is Rebecca. I've seen her at Spectrum before, usually with colleagues, her emotional signature typically a controlled palette of professional ambition and social awareness. Tonight is different.

  "I lost a case today," she says after sampling the cocktail, surprise flickering across her features at its perfect resonance with her mood. "One I should have won."

  I nod, polishing a glass to give my hands something to do while I carefully, almost imperceptibly, smooth the jagged edges of her distress. Not eliminating it—I never manipulate emotions that drastically without consent—but softening them just enough to allow genuine processing rather than spiraling.

  "The thing is," Rebecca continues, something in my attentive silence encouraging her, "it wasn't just any case. My client was a magical practitioner being sued by his mundane business partner. The partner found out about his abilities and claimed 'undue influence' in their dealings."

  My hand stills momentarily. These cases have been increasing lately—the mundane world brushing against the magical one, fear and misunderstanding fueling conflict.

  "Council wouldn't intervene?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

  "Said it was a 'minor exposure risk' that didn't warrant their attention." Bitterness tinges her words. "My client lost everything."

  I feel a familiar frustration rise within me. The Council's narrow focus on maintaining secrecy rather than justice is a long-standing point of contention. My parents believed in the system despite its flaws. But after their deaths, after seeing how the Council handled the shadow entity aftermath—categorizing it, containing it, but never truly addressing the trauma it caused—my faith eroded.

  "The system fails those it claims to protect," I say quietly, an admission I rarely voice aloud.

  Rebecca studies me, her emotional signature shifting to include curious blues. "You sound like you speak from experience."

  I offer a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. "Let's just say I've seen both sides of the Council's protection."

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  I infuse a subtle warmth into my emotional projection, not to manipulate but to connect—one person who understands the system's failures sharing solidarity with another.

  "The drink helps," she says after a moment. "What is it?"

  "Something I call Perspective. Doesn't solve problems, but might help you see them differently."

  Rebecca's emotional signature gradually shifts, the violent spikes of distress mellowing into a more manageable melancholy. When she eventually leaves, leaving a generous tip and a genuine "thank you," her emotional state isn't fixed—I don't believe in quick fixes—but it's balanced enough for her to face the evening without drowning in her disappointment.

  Miguel slides past, eyebrow raised. "Another emotional rescue mission, boss?"

  I shrug. "Just doing my job."

  "Right," Miguel snorts. "Bartending. Totally normal bartending."

  I don't argue. Maybe my methods aren't conventional, but then, neither am I. In a world that often feels increasingly divided between the magical and mundane, perhaps these small bridges are more important than the Council could understand.

  I turn to my next customer, already reading the emotional signature, already formulating the perfect drink to match. One connection at a time—it isn't changing the world, but it's changing moments. Sometimes that's enough.

  Around one, the crowd thins slightly. I'm wiping down the bar when the front door opens, and something strange happens—or rather, doesn't happen. Usually, I feel new arrivals immediately, their emotions announcing them before I even look up. But this presence registers as... nothing. A blank space in the emotional spectrum.

  I look up, curious, and see a man making his way to the bar. Average height, lean build, dark hair that falls across his forehead in a way that seems both careless and deliberate. He's objectively attractive—strong jawline, expressive eyes—but it's the absence around him that captures my attention. Not the absence of emotion in him, exactly, but an absence of my ability to read it. Like trying to tune into a radio station and finding only static.

  He takes a seat at the far end of the bar, and I feel a flutter of something unfamiliar in my chest. Uncertainty. I'm not used to uncertainty in my own space.

  I finish with my current customer and make my way toward him, trying to appear casual while my pulse picks up speed. As I get closer, the blank space becomes more defined—not empty, but opaque. Impenetrable.

  "What can I get you?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

  He looks up, and for a moment, I'm caught in the intensity of dark eyes that seem to see more than they should. "What do you recommend?"

  A standard question that usually gives me the perfect opening to read someone's emotional state and craft something tailored. But now I'm flying blind, and it's both frustrating and strangely exhilarating.

  "That depends on what you're in the mood for," I hedge, searching for any crack in his emotional armor. Nothing.

  "Surprise me." The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. "I've heard the bartender here has a knack for knowing what people need."

  There's something in his tone—a challenge, maybe—that makes me wonder if he knows. But that's impossible. I've been careful, always playing off my ability as intuition or good customer service.

  I study him for a moment longer, relying on visual cues instead of my usual sensory map. His posture is relaxed but alert. His clothes are simple but well-chosen—dark jeans, a gray henley that fits just right. There's a precision to him that suggests someone who pays attention to details.

  I decide to go with my instincts and make him a variation on an old fashioned—complex, straightforward, with unexpected depth. As I work, I try again to sense anything from him, extending my awareness like fingers reaching through fog.

  For just a second, I catch something—a flicker of curiosity, warm and bright—before the wall slams back into place. The brief connection is so startling that I nearly drop the bottle I'm holding.

  He notices. "Everything okay?"

  "Fine," I say quickly. "Just slippery." I slide the finished drink across to him, our fingers almost brushing. "I didn't catch your name."

  "Cameron." He lifts the glass, inhales the aroma, then takes a sip. His expression gives nothing away for a long moment, then softens into appreciation. "This is excellent."

  "Thanks. I'm Elias."

  "I know." At my raised eyebrow, he adds, "Your reputation precedes you. Spectrum has quite the following."

  "First time here?"

  "First time you've noticed me." There's that hint of a smile again, like he's enjoying a private joke.

  The implication that he's been here before without registering on my emotional radar is unsettling. I never miss people. Never.

  "I would have remembered you," I say, more honestly than I intended.

  "Would you?" He takes another sip, watching me over the rim of his glass. "You get pretty busy. And I tend to blend in."

  There's nothing about this man that could blend in, at least not to me. The absence he creates is like a black hole in a star field—defined precisely by what isn't there.

  "Are you new to the area?" I ask, trying to piece together the puzzle he presents.

  "Relatively. Moved here about six months ago."

  "For work?"

  "Something like that."

  His vague answers should be annoying, but instead, they draw me in further. I find myself lingering, neglecting other customers in a way I never do. Zoe shoots me a questioning look from the service well, her confusion a swirl of teal in my peripheral awareness.

  "I should get back to work," I say reluctantly.

  "Don't let me keep you."

  But as I move away to help other customers, I feel his gaze following me. Throughout the next hour, I find reasons to return to his end of the bar—refilling water, clearing empty glasses, offering another drink when his first one is done. Each time, I try again to get a read on him, and each time, I encounter that same impenetrable wall.

  It's maddening. And completely fascinating.

  By the time last call rolls around, the bar has emptied except for Cameron and a few stragglers. I've learned frustratingly little about him despite my best efforts—he works in "engineering" (too vague to be meaningful), lives downtown (like half the city), and has traveled extensively (evident from his offhand comments about cities around the world). What I haven't managed is to get any emotional reading whatsoever.

  As Miguel and Zoe handle closing procedures, I find myself back in front of Cameron, who's nursing the last of his second drink.

  "Another?" I offer, though we're technically closed.

  "Better not." He glances at his watch. "Some of us have to work tomorrow."

  "Saturday shift? That's rough."

  "Says the man who works Friday nights."

  "True, but I own the place. Makes the late nights worth it."

  He studies me for a moment, that same intensity that makes me feel strangely exposed. "Must be interesting, owning a bar. All those people, all those stories."

  "It has its moments." I lean against the back counter, crossing my arms. "What about engineering? Must be... full of numbers."

  He laughs, a genuine sound that somehow catches me off guard. "It has its moments too."

  I'm about to press further when he stands, placing cash on the bar that more than covers his tab. "Thanks for the drinks, Elias. They were exactly what I needed."

  There's something in the way he says it—a pointed emphasis that again makes me wonder if he knows more than he should. Before I can respond, he's heading for the door.

  "See you around," he calls over his shoulder.

  "Will I?" I can't help asking.

  He pauses at the threshold, that half-smile playing on his lips again. "Count on it."

  Then he's gone, and the emotional landscape of the room rebalances itself, flowing back into the space he'd occupied. But something feels different now—a disruption in my carefully maintained equilibrium.

  "Who was that?" Zoe asks, appearing at my elbow with a tray of clean glasses.

  "I have no idea," I admit, still staring at the door.

  "Well, whoever he is, you spent half the night talking to him." Her aura pulses with teasing pink. "Never seen you so distracted."

  "I wasn't distracted," I lie, turning away to hide my expression.

  "Right." She doesn't believe me for a second. "That's why you gave table eight margaritas when they ordered mojitos."

  I had? I don't even remember.

  As we finish closing, I find myself replaying every moment of interaction with Cameron, searching for clues I might have missed. Why couldn't I read him? In all my years of using my ability, I've never encountered someone completely closed to me. Some people are harder to read than others, emotions muffled or contradictory, but never... absent.

  By the time I lock up and head to my apartment above the bar, I've convinced myself I need to know more. This isn't just curiosity—it's a potential threat. If someone can block my ability, what else might they be capable of? What might they know about me?

  At least, that's what I tell myself as I lie awake, the memory of dark eyes and that challenging half-smile keeping sleep at bay. It's about security, not fascination. Not the strange pull I felt toward that blank space in my carefully managed world.

  But even as I think it, I know I'm lying to myself. For the first time in years, I've encountered something—someone—I can't read, can't predict, can't subtly shape to fit my expectations.

  And God help me, I can't wait to see him again.

  The last customer has left, the glasses are washed, and Miguel and Zoe have gone home. Spectrum is mine alone again, the emotional residue of hundreds of people still lingering in the air like perfume.

  I pour myself two fingers of a rare Japanese whisky I keep hidden behind lesser bottles. I don't drink often—alcohol blurs my empathic senses, makes the emotions of others bleed together in ways that can be overwhelming. But tonight, I need the warm barrier it creates between myself and the world.

  I carry my glass upstairs to my apartment above the bar. The space is small but meticulously arranged—bookshelves lined with texts on emotional theory and empathic techniques, some so rare they exist in only a handful of copies worldwide. A collection of my grandmother's crystalline emotion captures sits in a locked cabinet by the window, each delicate sphere containing a perfectly preserved emotional moment—my father's pride at my graduation, my mother's serene joy while tending her garden, my sister's uninhibited laughter during a family vacation.

  All that remains of them now.

  I settle into the window seat overlooking the quiet street below. The whisky burns pleasantly, creating a moment of sensory focus that pushes back against the swirl of thoughts that have been circulating since that man—Cameron—walked into my bar.

  In all my years as an empath, I've never encountered someone I couldn't read. It's like suddenly going blind in one eye. Disconcerting. Fascinating.

  I pull a journal from beneath the cushion of the window seat. Unlike my customer notebook downstairs, this one contains my private research—observations about emotional patterns, theories about the nature of empathic abilities, and increasingly, questions about the Council's approach to magical regulation.

  Lydia would disapprove of these speculations. My mentor believes in working within the system, in slow, cautious reform. But lately, I've been wondering if that's enough. The case Rebecca lost today is just one of many examples where the Council's priorities seem misaligned with the well-being of those they claim to serve.

  I make a note about Cameron, careful to record the experience objectively despite my lingering curiosity. An immunity to empathic reading. A natural shield. What would the Council make of such an ability? Nothing good, I suspect. They distrust what they can't categorize or control.

  A movement on the street below catches my attention. A man walking alone, collar turned up against the night chill. Not Cameron, but something about the solitary figure reminds me of my own increasingly isolated position.

  Most empaths my age are fully integrated into the Council hierarchy by now. They have colleagues, mentors, a community of practitioners who understand their abilities. I've chosen a different path, turning my family's expectations upside down by opening Spectrum. I've told myself it's about independence, about using my abilities on my own terms.

  But on nights like this, truth creeps in around the edges of my carefully constructed justifications. I'm hiding. From the Council's politics, yes, but also from the weight of my family's legacy. From the pitying looks of those who remember the promising young empath orphaned by tragedy. From the responsibility of truly engaging with a magical community that sometimes seems as broken as it is powerful.

  Spectrum allows me to help people without committing to fixing a system I'm not sure can be fixed. It lets me use my abilities without confronting the larger questions about what those abilities are truly meant for.

  The whisky is almost gone now, and with it, the comforting distance it provided. I close my journal and return it to its hiding place. Tomorrow will bring new customers, new emotional landscapes to navigate. And perhaps Cameron will return, bringing with him the unsettling blank space in my perception that has simultaneously frustrated and intrigued me.

  For now, though, I'm alone with the quiet pulse of my own emotions—curiosity, discontent, and a persistent sense that something is about to change. I've become so adept at reading others that sometimes I forget to read myself. Tonight, my own emotional signature is restless, seeking something I can't quite name.

  I finish the whisky and prepare for bed, trying to ignore the feeling that the carefully constructed balance of my life has already begun to shift.