Elara's smile faded, but the warmth it left behind lingered in the air, transforming the atmosphere from a tense confrontation into a surreal, awkward social call. The three friends sat stiffly on her couch, their minds racing to catch up with the reality that had just unfolded. They were having a conversation with a creature of myth, and she had just complimented Mike's garlic bread.
Elara seemed to sense their state of shock. She took a final swig from her beer bottle, emptying it, and set the bottle down on the glass table with a soft clink that broke the silence.
"Right," she said, mostly to herself. "Need another."
She walked over to a large, stainless-steel refrigerator that looked jarringly modern in her otherwise timeless apartment. As she pulled the freezer drawer open, a wave of frigid air washed into the room.
Sam's eyes widened. The drawer wasn't filled with frozen peas and ice cream. It was meticulously organized with rows upon rows of beer bottles—craft ales from Belgium, dark stouts from Ireland, lagers with labels in German and Japanese. And tucked in the very back, Leo could just make out the shape of the same dark green, unmarked bottles he now knew to be her 'wine'.
"Whoa," Sam commented, his inner accountant marveling at the sheer inventory. "You have the entire bar in there."
Leo, still processing the violent images from the alley against the casual woman before him, spoke without thinking, his tone flat and observational. "You are a chronic alcoholic."
Elara didn't even turn around as she selected a dark porter. She didn't deny it. She didn't get defensive. She simply popped the cap off with a flick of her thumb and leaned against the counter.
"Try living for a thousand years completely sober," she said, her voice devoid of self-pity. "You'd be begging for a drink by the end of the first century."
The number hung in the air, heavy and impossible. A thousand years. Sam's practical mind immediately latched onto the logistics. "A thousand years… How do you even have the money for all this? For the apartment?" he asked, gesturing around the room. "From what we can tell, you don't go to any job."
Elara let out a short, dry laugh. It was a sound like rustling old leaves. "Kid, if you manage to live for a thousand years and you don't have any money, then you better just end it all." She took a long drink from her beer before fixing him with a sharp, ancient gaze. "Compound interest is a beautiful thing when you have a few centuries to let it cook. You have no hope, bubby."
Her tone was light, almost teasing, but her eyes held the hard-earned, cynical wisdom of ages. Then, a shadow passed through them, a flicker of something dark and deeply weary.
"Well," she added, her voice dropping, losing its flippant edge. "It's not like I can even end myself."
The shift was so sudden it gave Leo whiplash. The casual conversation about finances had just taken a sharp turn into a very dark alley.
She looked down into her beer, swirling the dark liquid. The casual bravado was gone, replaced by a profound, soul-crushing exhaustion that seemed to age her a thousand years in a single second.
"Believe me," she said, her voice barely a whisper, not meant for them but for the ghosts of her past. "I've tried many times."