My vision narrowed. The rain and the world around me faded to black. It was just me and them. Nasal Goon fumbled in his jacket, pulling out a knife. Perfect. He lunged at my chest. I let him connect, grabbed his wrist, and yanked him close. His eyes went wide, and I grinned, a smile that screamed, "you messed up, kid." I twisted his wrist until I heard a loud crack. He screamed.


    The hunger grew. Another thug swung a punch at my gut. I sidestepped, closed the distance, grabbed his collar, and hammered my forearm into his neck, over and over, until he crumpled.


    Weakness crept in now. The first attacker stumbled forward again. I rushed him, tackled him to the ground, and slammed his head into the concrete. Each impact a punctuation mark in my furious tirade.


    Two more thugs stepped up, one with brass knuckles, the other with a rusty pipe. Where in the abyss did he get that?


    The bar doors swung open. Murphy stepped out, shotgun in hand, his red hair slicked back. "You’ve got until the count of three to get the damned rift off my property," he growled. "Three…" He fired a shot, aiming high. The goons scattered, dragging their fallen comrades with them.


    Murphy lowered the shotgun, eyes locking onto mine. "You alright, Jack?" he asked, voice softer now. I nodded, still catching my breath. Murphy shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips.


    I blinked away the haze, my senses returning. "You okay, miss?" I asked, trying to soften my voice.


    The woman, drenched and shaking from shock, clung to her red dress. Strands of brunette hair stuck to her face, framing her eyes. Even soaked and shivering, she exuded elegance. I chided myself for thinking of such things at a time like this.


    “I’m fine,” she managed between shivers.


    “Come on, let’s get you inside and warmed up.”


    Murphy led us in. He saw me in the full light of the bar. “Jesus, Jack, you look like something the cat dragged in, ate, and then puked up.”


    “Nice to see you too, Murph.”


    “I’ve had prettier bowel movements. Much prettier.”


    We settled by the fire, and Murphy brought our mystery woman a towel.


    Walking into Murphy''s Lost and Found Saloon was like stepping into another world, perched between the strange and the familiar. The flickering fireplace took center stage, casting a warm glow over the cozy space. Plush armchairs circled the hearth, inviting patrons to relax. This place was more than a bar; it was a home filled with the mingling scents of wood smoke and whiskey, cut with just a hint of magic.


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


    Saints, I could go for a coffee.


    The saloon occupied what used to be the living and dining rooms of a two-story house. Instead of a grand dining table, there were barstools and small, round tables for intimate chats. The back rooms served as storage, and I called the upstairs home. Murphy, ever the gracious host, seated us by the fire.


    The bar itself was a polished mahogany monolith, standing tall and imposing. Each scratch and groove whispered tales of countless toasts, shared laughter, and spilled tears. Soft orange light from the streetlamp filtered through stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the well-worn wooden floor. Murphy tended the fire, shadows dancing on the brick wall behind him. Shelves behind the bar overflowed with bottles of every shape and hue, creating a shimmering mosaic. A potion to cure any ailment. A drink for love lost, a drink to deal with terrible bosses, a drink for the hapless, and a drink to celebrate. But not a drop to cure my particular condition.


    In the corner, a piano played itself, weaving a soft, haunting melody that mingled with the low hum of conversation. The room was a vibrant tapestry of beings from all walks of life, human and otherworldly. Their voices created a symphony of strange words and dialects, blending into a universal language of camaraderie and chaos.


    Murphy glided through the bustling crowd, his red hair catching the flicker of the fireplace’s warm glow. He was the guardian angel—or perhaps a fallen one—of this quirky sanctuary, a protector for the lost and the found. He offered a nod here, a comforting word there. Murphy’s was more than a bar; it was a safe haven where the bizarre and the broken came to find a moment of respite. A place where time and space bent to the power of human connection and the resilience of the human spirit. Amidst the clinking glasses and murmured stories, reality blurred, and for a fleeting moment, everyone found their true place in the vast expanse of the universe.


    Murphy brought us blankets to warm up, though I didn’t feel cold. An unspoken truth lingered among the patrons—I couldn''t shake the suspicion that Murphy was Devil Kissed. He’d spent his life surrounded by magic, welcoming everyone into his bar. Maybe he had a bit of fae in his ancestry, or perhaps he made an old deal with a demon. Who could judge? There was so much good in the worst of us and bad in the best of us that it was an abyssal shame for any of us to talk about the rest of us.


    Full demons couldn’t linger in our world without going mad, but their influence left a mark. Those who dabbled with demonic artifacts or made pacts with demons started to change, earning the name Devil Kissed. The more they were influenced, the more they bore the mark of the Otherworld.


    Then there were the Hexborn—those with non-human ancestry in their bloodlines. It was a forbidden topic, something that could ruin lives if mentioned in unfriendly company. But here, in Murphy’s establishment, the Devil Kissed and Hexborn found a fragile truce, their secrets safe.


    Devil Kissed showed signs—faintly glowing eyes, an unnatural grace, a voice with a hint of the abyss. The Hexborn had non-human ancestry—Pixie Touched, Fae Touched, Wolf Touched—each with distinctive traits.


    In my heyday, even I started showing signs. Until I put Frank away, hints of demon influence clung to me.


    Some folks were real hypocrites. They called themselves Pure, like they were better than the rest of us. But they ran their lights on Infernum, cooked their meals with Shadefire, and drove cars fueled by Nightstone oil. Their homes were powered by the same dark currents that kept our world ticking, yet they still had the gall to call us Tainted.