The Cellar hadn’t changed much.
Same dim lights, same cracked leather booths, haze of cheap perfume and whiskey soaked into the air.
Isabel hadn’t stepped foot inside in months, but everything felt the same even the guy at the door recognized her and gave a small nod when she walked in with her hoodie pulled low and her hands buried in her pockets.
Mercy was already there, tucked into a booth near the back with two half-empty drinks in front of her. Her hair was in a braid down her back and she was halfway through a shot of something clear when Isabel slid into the seat across from her.
Mercy squinted, “you’re actually here.”
“You told me to call when I was losing it,” Isabel muttered, pulling off her hoodie. “So… here I am.”
Mercy grinned, “fair enough.” She waved at the bartender,
