Seven Shots to Afterlife Lean Jane Pantorilla
There’s a small bar somewhere down the corner of the street, tucked within alleyways. A crack into the underworld, many people call it. Rumor has it that it doesn’t even exist—just a thing made out of urban legends and false advertising—unless it finds you. At least, that’s the way it usually goes, until a man steps into the wooden floors of the said bar, startling even the barkeep. Patrons of all kinds snap their heads toward his direction: crumpled coat, coffee-stained shirt, and eye bags that look heavier than the sky when it’s about to pour. Another lost soul finds its way into their fine establishment, so it seems. But the barkeep says nothing, and instead sets a clean glass on the counter. Loud enough to cut through the noise, yet gentle enough to keep things quiet. He knows what the straggler will order. “Let me guess,” he stares at the man, setting his palms flat across the
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