It's four hour past work time, the first day of the week, Lernen. Hidden behind a few curves of roads, lies an unassuming bar. A place nothing short of a Mecca for tired workmen.

He should arrive shortly, usually around this time. Overtime has consumed his spirit, but nothing a few drinks can not heal. Feet splashes on wet concrete, puddles randomly spawned after a light rain. His scarf is wrapped around his neck, the cold could give one a frostbite if not careful.

The stair that leads down to the bar is warped by the feet of thousands of visitors. A small bell rung as the door opens. Attention of the patrons were averted momentarily, which then followed with their business again. They know him just as "the usual".

"Jacket on wood, please." A wooden pole, placed horizontally near the entrance. Multiple jackets are already on it. It's far from the tables, but the stench is unreal if you're close enough.

"Fucking hell Jackson, mind investing in a drier?" He exclaimed after micro-particles of someone's sweat stains offended his senses.

"Maybe I will, Lukman. Maybe after you spend more than a Koen a day, like some cheapskate."

"Maybe after you decided that a skunk's piss is better than your beer. Give me a Scorsese instead." Lukman pulls out two Koens from his pants, then slammed it on the table.

A shriek of laughter breaks the often calm atmosphere of the bar. Someone's done it, a new customer. Her hood is masking an expression of madness, she's only holding to a beer made by Jackson, the bartender. It's been a week since she dailies here.

"The new dailies, fuck is her problem?" Lukman chugs on the bottle.

"None knows. She's always been like that. Mostly watch the news, international one." Jackson continues to polish an already clean glass on his hand.

"Nothing funny there, not lately."

It has been a week after the weapon facility's explosion. Every news outlet worth their salt is covering it. The facility is located inside of the grey zone. Milium, the nearby country which owned the facility, is currently having a bad blood with The Republic. Multiple deaths were reported, most were civies living nearby.

Lukman has a patriotic bone for The Republic. He is walking straight to her, trying to give a piece of his mind. The back of his shirt was tugged by Jackson, the bartender shook his head.

"Let's not."

Lukman simply replied with "Fuck off". He is close to her, fingers pointing to the TV screwed to the wall. The paint around it is flaky and discolored, probably from the years of heat it emits.

"Can you tell me what's funny there miss?"

"HA HA HA HA HA, LOSERS, HA HA HA HA HA"

She is not budging, her eyes hidden behind the hood. Her feet sprung into the air, clapping, and losing breaths. Annoyed by the noise, Lukman touches her shoulder.

Bottle broke, shards of sharp glass missed his face by a hair. Her hand extended forward, swung around in frenzy, but strangely accurate. Her eyes are blood-red, unkempt hair, and skin pale and rough like a sick blue collar worker.

Two steps later, both of them stumble to the ground, the wooden floor screamed and creaks. She is mumbling words none understand, while still maintaining an unbroken gaze to Lukman. Her face planted aground, everyone watched carefully, clutching their drinks and phone alike. No one is recording, not the place, not the time.

"Fffhuck... Yeeeuuuw..." The drunken woman picked herself up and run towards the door, vanishing into the night.

Lukman is still lying on the floor, his ass planted backwards, chest towards the TV. His eyes bulges, eyebrows raised, shocked, and very confused.

"What the fuck was that?! I almost lost my eyes, Jackson!" Jackson's pose doesn't change, he is still wiping the glass like an automaton.

Tension escalates within the imaginary walls that separates The Republic and Milium. From the top of the food chain, to the grassroots of lonely man like Lukman. To keep the status quo, everyone is understandably overworked, particularly those who are working directly to defend it. The police, military, doctors, scientist, and The Agency.

The Agency, a government organization specialized in "behind the curtain" kind of work. It wouldn't be a far fetch to think the explosion was caused by them. Their main objective is not to stop the war, but to win it if need be. Lukman is a field agent, one working under them. He has been overworked lately, the flow of new information which needs treatment are endless and spikes in numbers.

"Thank god my Scorsese is still cold." Lukman is back to his seat.

"You look stressed kid. Someone screwed something at The Agency again?"

"How about you screw yourself, Jackson." Lukman is watching the bubble of his drink rises up.

"How about giving an old dog some bone? Been years since I worked on the field. I'm retired, but I still miss the sweats."

Although retired, even a layman can see Jackson as a bright and sharp man. In reality, his previous active rank in The Agency far exceeds that of Lukman. The question is patronizing, like a father asking his kid about school work.

On the other hand, he is the best men you can get, if you want to pour your heart out. Years of experience and merits, he should be able to give some good insights.

"Some executive pillock thought it was a good idea to mess around with my schedule. He or she or it or the devil think this war will escalate. Aren't they getting tired after saying the same thing for the thousandth time?"

"That's why you're here so late?"

Lukman replied in silence and sipped some juice out of his bottle. It's already halfway done, yet his mind is still clear as day. Not enough alcohol. Not enough distraction. Not enough coping materials.

He smacked the bottle down the wooden bar, everyone on the back room can hear it. Though, it's diffused by the chatter of other patrons. He is alone on that bar, everyone else are talking with their friends and family. Jackson felt a strange kind of parental duty, as he sees Lukman in such states.

"You're depressed kid." Then lukman replied swiftly, "Thanks for the heads-up."

"You look like shit since two moons ago, do something about it. You're scaring the others. Take a breather, travel to Roze. Maybe explore the Pink District, I'm sure you'll find someone special out there."

"You're asking me to whore-out?"

"I'm asking you to heal Lukman."

Roze Island is one day travel from where he stands. It's a popular tourist area, and he have heard good reviews from the Pink District. It also happened that his reflection from the bottle of Scorsese paints him like a hobo, one step away from being crazy and unstable. Either he realizes of his deteriorating mental health now, or when it's already too late.

"I still got month left in my time-offs."

"Then use it, dumb-ass." Jackson is going straight to the point. He is the proponent of work life balance. Even in the line of work where people could die, living is still the main objective. Or so he thought.

Lukman is considering the consequences. Either take a one month vacation to rest his mind or body, or became the mad girl that just left the building. Even after taking a time-offs, he should also prepare the money, transport by loon to Roze Island, agendas, place of interest, and other things to plan. He ponders until the last drop of Scorsese entered his mouth. In the top of his lungs, he proclaims:

"Screw it, I don't want to go crazy!"