One
Lyra
The bar’s air was thick with the tang of whiskey and the stale bite of old smoke—a scent that seeped into Lyra’s skin, followed her home at the end of every shift, and clung to her sheets long after the neon buzz had faded from the windows. She slid a glass across the scarred counter, the movement so practiced it felt like second nature. The regular at the end—Mick, she thought his name was, though he never offered—caught her eye and managed half a smile. He’d been cradling the same bourbon for over an hour, turning the glass slowly against the wood as if searching for answers in the amber swirl.
Music pulsed from the battered jukebox near the restrooms, a throbbing undercurrent that masked the occasional muffled argument. It was loud enough to cover secrets, yet soft enough that Lyra could still hear her own heartbeat, a steady drumbeat she’d trained herself to trust.
Nights like this were her favorite—nights where nothing unexpected happened. Where her world shrank to the safe rhythm of pouring drinks, wiping down counters, and trading gentle banter with her regulars. Predictable. Mundane. Safe. The word echoed in her mind, a fragile shield against the memories that sometimes threatened to rise.
She twisted a bar towel in her hands, then forced a smile as she leaned forward. “Another?” she asked, her voice carrying a gentle lilt she couldn’t quite hide. The man blinked at her, his reply a hurried nod. Lyra looked away, careful not to let her gaze linger. Even here, even now, she had to remember to keep her words clipped, her tone neutral. She knew better than anyone how dangerous a siren’s song could be. It didn’t require a stage or a melody; sometimes, all it took was a careless phrase, a note of longing hidden in a simple question.
As she poured, Lyra noticed her hand trembled just slightly. No one here knew what she was. No one ever would—if she kept her wits about her. She’d survived this long by being careful. Careful was all she had.
The bar’s battered door slammed open, drawing a collective glance from the patrons. A gust of cold night air swept in, curling around Lyra’s ankles and sending a shiver up her spine. Two men entered, their suits too crisp for a place like this, their shoes clicking on the sticky floor. Not regulars. Their eyes swept the room with calculated precision before settling on the bar.
Lyra’s stomach tightened, a knot forming low and hard. She pressed her lips together and forced herself to keep moving. Wipe the counter. Take the cash. Smile. Don’t draw attention. She watched from the corner of her eye as the men claimed seats, one at each end of the bar, their silence sharp and deliberate.
Her pulse stuttered, then picked up speed. She excused herself to the back, hands braced against the chipped porcelain sink, breath coming quick and shallow. Not now. Not here. The life she’d built—this quiet, unremarkable existence—depended on her blending in. No family, no friends, no ties to the sea, she still dreamed of some nights. Just Lyra and the safety of being invisible.
When she returned, the men hadn’t moved. They watched her with the patience of predators. Lyra wiped her hands on her jeans and steadied herself.
“Closing time’s soon,” she called, keeping her gaze fixed on the liquor bottles lining the shelf. “Last call.”
No response. Only the scrape of a chair leg across the floor. One of the men stood, slow and unhurried; the other followed, wearing a smile that never reached his eyes.
Lyra’s instincts screamed at her to run.
She slid her hand beneath the bar, fingers curling around the handle of the old baseball bat she kept for emergencies. But it was too late. The first man was already standing beside her, his shadow swallowing hers, the scent of his cologne sharp and metallic. The second blocked the exit, arms folded.
“Miss,” the taller one said, his voice soft, edged with amusement. “You’ll want to come with us.”
Her throat closed, not from fear—though she could feel it lapping at her composure—but from something older, deeper. Her siren blood stirred, restless, tasting the danger humming in the air. Lyra swallowed hard and forced her voice steady.
“I think you’ve got the wrong girl,” she said.
The man’s smile stretched wider, revealing teeth that looked just a little too sharp, too inhuman.
The lights overhead flickered.
Lyra’s grip on the counter faltered, a prickling awareness crawling across her skin. She wasn’t just being watched. She was being hunted.
And for the first time in years, Lyra wondered if the quiet life she’d built for herself had only ever been borrowed time.
Van burst out of his office, his heavy boots thudding across the floor. His voice boomed above the jukebox and chatter, cutting through the tension like a knife. “What’s going on here?” he demanded, his thick brows knitting together as he took in the scene. He squared his broad shoulders and glared at the strangers, not bothering to hide the warning in his tone. “I think it’s about time you boys leave my bar.”
The two men shot Van a look, their lips curling in annoyance. For a brief moment, the entire bar fell silent—every patron’s gaze shifting from their drinks to the standoff at the counter. The regulars exchanged glances, murmurs dying on their lips as the threat became clear. At the edge of the room, Marcus the bouncer—a mountain of a man with arms folded over his chest—straightened and began to move purposefully toward the trouble.
Marcus’s deep voice rumbled out, calm but unmistakably firm. “You heard the boss. It’s time for you two to go.”
With a huff, the men threw one last glare in Lyra’s direction before stalking toward the door, shoulders tense with frustration. The moment the door banged shut behind them, Lyra sagged against the bar, drawing in a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Around her, the low hum of conversation slowly resumed, but she could still feel her heart pounding in her chest.
The night air sliced at Lyra’s cheeks as she stepped out of the bar, the echo of laughter and clinking glasses fading behind her. She paused, keys jingling in her hand, and glanced back at the neon sign flickering above the door—a talisman of ordinary life. Lyra slid the key into the lock, twisting until she heard the familiar click. She tugged the handle twice, just to be sure, before slipping the keyring deep into her jacket pocket.
The street was deserted, washed in the pale sodium light of a single streetlamp. Across the road, a neon sign hummed, painting watery blue and pink shadows on the wet pavement. The emptiness pressed in, broken only by the distant whirr of a passing car. Lyra let out a slow breath. Quiet.
Too quiet.
She hitched the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder, determined to keep her pace steady. These streets were old friends—she had walked them a thousand times, tracing the same path from the bar to her tiny apartment. Usually, the routine was a comfort. Tonight, though, every footstep echoed sharp and loud. Every shadow seemed to stretch and twitch at the edge of her vision, as if waiting for her to look away.
Lyra’s thoughts tumbled over themselves. Those two men—their blank faces, the way they’d sat in the bar without speaking, eyes tracking her every move. They’d left so suddenly, too neatly, as if following a silent cue. There had been a purpose to their silence that made her skin crawl.
Her heartbeat drummed in her ears, faster now.
“Paranoid,” she muttered, but the word came out softer than she intended, edged with a sweetness she’d learned to bury. The sound bounced off the brick walls, lingering in the air like a note from a forbidden song. Lyra pressed her lips together, frustration prickling under her skin at her own lapse in control.
Half a block from her building, a new sound sliced through the night.
Footsteps.
Measured. Heavy. Unhurried—whoever it was made no attempt to muffle their approach.
Lyra spun around, heart hammering. Under the yellow glare of a streetlamp, the taller man from the bar lounged against a post, the light carving deep shadows on his cheekbones. Behind her, another set of footsteps grew louder—the second man, closing in, boxing her in like prey.
She felt her stomach drop, icy and weightless.
“Evening, sweetheart,” the tall one drawled, his words curling in the air like smoke. His eyes glinted, sharp and hungry, beneath the lamplight. “Long night?”
Lyra’s throat burned with the urge to sing, to let her power loose in a desperate command. But she knew the price. Even a whisper of siren magic would ripple through the Underground—someone would sense it, and she’d lose the life she’d scraped together. She hesitated, every instinct clashing: safety or survival.
Her feet stuttered, the decision tearing through her.
She ran.
The world snapped narrow, reduced to the slap of her boots against wet concrete, the frantic rhythm of her breath. Her bag struck her hip with each stride, urging her forward. She didn’t dare look back, not until a pair of arms crashed into her from the side, driving her off balance.
She hit the alley wall with a cry, pain sparking down her shoulder.
“Shh.” A rough hand clamped across her mouth, pinning her head to the cool bricks. Another hand wrenched her wrists above her head, trapping her. Hot breath grazed her cheek, tinged with a metallic, copper tang that confirmed what she already feared—these men weren’t human. She could feel it in the strength of their grip, the unnatural heat radiating from their skin.
The second man appeared, stepping from the darkness. Behind him, a black van idled at the curb, engine purring low and hungry.
“Got her,” the man restraining Lyra murmured. “The boss is going to be very pleased.”
Lyra’s blood froze.
She thrashed, fighting with every ounce of strength, and bit down hard on the hand covering her mouth. The man hissed, jerking his hand away, but his grip on her wrists only tightened. The other man approached, a syringe glinting in his fist, the needle catching the light with a promise of pain.
“No!” Lyra’s scream tore free, raw and desperate, her siren nature flooding into the cry. The sound cracked through the alley, piercing and unnatural. For a heartbeat, both men froze, their eyes blown wide, their bodies shuddering as if struck by something unseen.
It wasn’t enough.
The needle jabbed into her arm. Fire lanced through her veins, spreading fast and cold. The world tilted; her legs buckled. Her last sight before darkness claimed her was the men’s faces—grinning, victorious, monstrous.
Then the world went black.
