THE HOUSE OF BROKEN PROMISES

The clock behind the bar at The Alabaster Table hadn't ticked in seventeen years, yet somehow it always showed the correct time. Tonight it read 8:47 PM—the hour when everything would change.

Minos wiped the same spot on the mahogany bar, watching raindrops race down the windows. The neon sign outside flickered, casting crimson shadows across the room.

"They're coming tonight," whispered Theia, his longtime waitress. A fresh bruise darkened her cheekbone—courtesy of one of the gangsters they'd been harboring.

"Who did that to you?" Minos asked, setting down his cloth.

"Doesn't matter," she replied, eyes darting to the back room. "What matters is that the Crimson Covenant is coming. There's a traitor who sold them out."

BROKEN PROMISES

Four weeks had passed since the Obsidian Hand had stumbled through his doors, bleeding and desperate. Four weeks of broken promises, each day stretching longer than the last.

"You promised one night," Minos had confronted Erebus yesterday.

Erebus had merely smiled, revealing a gold tooth. "Plans change, old man. Be grateful we still let your customers come and go."

For three generations, The Alabaster Table had stayed open in this forgotten corner of the city. His grandmother had established that tradition, his father had maintained it, and Minos had sworn to uphold it. Until now.

THE WARNING

The kitchen doors swung open as Leto, the elderly cook, emerged. "They've taken all the food from the pantry," she hissed. "And that snake Erebus says to put it on your tab."

Before Minos could respond, the front door burst open. A young man stumbled in, clutching his side. Blood seeped between his fingers.

"They're coming," he gasped, collapsing into a chair. "The Covenant—they're two blocks away."

Minos recognized him as one of Erebus's lookouts. He moved quickly, grabbing the first aid kit.

"Theia, get Erebus," he ordered, pressing a clean towel against the young man's wound.

"No!" The wounded lookout grabbed Minos's wrist. "Don't tell Erebus. He's the one who did this to me."

Minos froze. "What?"

"He made a deal," the young man whispered. "Sold out his own men to save his skin. The Covenant gets The Table and everything in it. Erebus walks away free."

THE CONFRONTATION

The back room door slammed open. Erebus emerged, flanked by his two remaining lieutenants, all carrying packed bags.

"Going somewhere?" Minos asked coldly.

Erebus's eyes darted to the wounded lookout, then narrowed. "Change of plans, old man. We're leaving."

"Running, you mean," Minos corrected. "After selling us all out to the Covenant."

The restaurant fell silent. Even the regular patrons turned to stare.

Erebus's hand moved to his waistband, where Minos knew he kept a pearl-handled revolver. "Careful with your accusations."

"It's not an accusation if it's true," the wounded lookout managed to say.

In one fluid motion, Erebus drew his gun and fired. The lookout slumped in his chair, a small red hole appearing in his forehead.

THE ATTACK

Screams erupted as patrons dove for cover. Minos reached for the shotgun beneath the bar, but Erebus was faster, swinging the revolver toward him.

"I wouldn't," Erebus warned. "We're walking out that door. Anyone tries to stop us, they die."

The standoff stretched for three heartbeats before the front windows exploded inward. Smoke canisters rolled across the floor, filling the restaurant with acrid clouds.

Through the haze, Minos glimpsed crimson coats entering. The Covenant had arrived.

Gunfire erupted. Minos ducked behind the bar, pulling Theia down with him. Bullets splintered wood above their heads.

"The cellar," Minos shouted to Theia over the gunfire. "Get the customers to the cellar!"

THE PROPOSITION

As Theia crawled toward the nearest patrons, Minos reached for the shotgun. His fingers closed around the wooden stock just as a figure vaulted over the bar, landing beside him.

Hyperion, leader of the Crimson Covenant, looked oddly composed despite the chaos. His crimson coat was immaculate, his silver hair perfectly styled.

"Minos," he said, as if they were meeting for a friendly drink. "I believe Erebus promised you'd be reasonable."

"I never made any deal with Erebus," Minos growled, keeping the shotgun pointed at Hyperion's chest.

"No?" Hyperion raised an eyebrow. "Then why harbor him for four weeks? The Alabaster Table has always been free. Until now."

"I made a mistake," Minos admitted. "But that doesn't mean I'm giving my restaurant to you."

Hyperion sighed. "Look around you, Minos. Your precious neutral ground is already a battleground. The only question is who will own the ruins."

THE STAND

Outside the bar, the gunfire had died down. Minos could hear Erebus shouting orders—he was making for the kitchen exit.

"Your men are dying while Erebus escapes," Minos told Hyperion. "Some loyalty he inspired."

Something dangerous flashed in Hyperion's eyes. "Erebus won't escape. I have men at every exit." He leaned closer. "But you still have a choice, Minos. The Table can survive under new management, or it can burn tonight."

Before Minos could answer, a patron at the far table—Chronos, who'd been coming for twenty years—stood up amidst the chaos. "The Table stays free." He held a revolver of his own, pointed steadily at Hyperion.

One by one, other patrons rose from their hiding places. Not gangsters, just ordinary people who'd found something worth protecting.

"You're outnumbered, Hyperion," Minos said quietly.

Hyperion's laugh was cold. "Quality over quantity, old man. My men are killers. Your defenders are accountants and dock workers."

"They're people who believe in something," Minos replied. "Can your men say the same?"

THE ESCAPE

A sudden crash from the kitchen interrupted them. A moment later, one of Hyperion's lieutenants appeared, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead.

"Erebus is gone," he reported. "Took out two of our men at the back door."

Hyperion's composure cracked. "Find him," he snarled. "No one betrays the Covenant."

In the distance, police sirens wailed—an unexpected complication.

Hyperion's eyes narrowed as he reassessed the situation. He was caught between a defiant restaurant owner, armed civilians, and approaching police.

"This isn't over," he told Minos, backing toward the door. "When we return, you'll have one choice: submission or destruction."

"The Covenant honors no arrangements we didn't make ourselves," Minos quoted back at him. "Why should I believe anything you say?"

For a moment, something like respect flickered in Hyperion's eyes. "You shouldn't," he admitted. "But believe this—I always finish what I start."

He signaled to his men, and the Crimson Covenant began a strategic retreat.

As they reached the door, Hyperion paused. "Three days, Minos. You have three days to decide. After that, I burn this place to the ground with everyone in it."

THE AFTERMATH

The bell chimed as the door closed behind them, leaving only the sound of rain through broken windows.

Minos lowered his shotgun, surveying the devastation of his beloved restaurant. Tables overturned, windows shattered, blood staining the hardwood floors.

"What do we do now?" Theia asked, emerging from the cellar with the civilians.

Chronos approached. "We fight," he said simply. "The Table's worth fighting for."

Minos looked around at the faces watching him—ordinary people caught in an extraordinary situation.

"Erebus betrayed us all," Minos said slowly. "And now he's gone, leaving us to face Hyperion's wrath. But he made one mistake."

"What's that?" asked Leto.

"He thought The Table was just a building," Minos replied. "It's not. It's an idea. A promise that somewhere in this city, there's free ground."

THE RESOLUTION

He set his shotgun on the bar and looked each of them in the eye. "I broke that promise when I harbored the Obsidian Hand. I won't make that mistake again."

"So we're just giving up?" Theia asked, disbelief in her voice.

"No," Minos shook his head. "We're going back to our roots. The Table was never meant to take sides in other people's wars. It was meant to be a sanctuary from them."

"Hyperion won't see it that way," Chronos warned. "He wants control."

"Then we make him understand," Minos said firmly. "The Alabaster Table has survived worse than the Crimson Covenant."

As the sirens grew closer, Minos made a decision. "We have three days. Spread the word—The Alabaster Table stands free once more. Anyone who respects that is welcome. Anyone who doesn't..." He patted the shotgun. "Well, my grandmother had a saying about that."

"What was it?" asked a young patron.

Minos smiled grimly. "'Free ground doesn't mean defenseless ground.'"

THE PROMISE

Later, after the police had gone, after the wounded had been tended to and the last customer had left, Minos stood alone in his empty restaurant. He ran his hand along the bullet-scarred bar.

"I let you down," he whispered to the walls. "I won't make that mistake again."

But as he surveyed the damage, a deeper truth settled in his bones. Openness wasn't passive—it was the most active stance of all. It required constant vigilance, constant defense.

The Crimson Covenant would return in three days. Hyperion's ultimatum hung in the air: submission or destruction.

Minos picked up a shattered picture frame—his grandmother on opening day, proud and defiant.

"Neither," he decided, setting the frame back in place.

In the corner, the broken clock ticked once, then fell silent. The hour was late, but a new day was coming.

And when Hyperion returned for his answer, The Alabaster Table would be ready.