Junebell's Story - A Very Drunk Goblin, and a Terrible Apartment Building

Junebell settles onto the crate in the alley, the stolen bottle cold against her palms. The Rusty Spigot’s back door hangs open behind her, and the bar’s noise stays muffled and far away.

The tap inside is still running. Somewhere in the building, glass clinks once, then nothing. The city hums beyond the brick walls.

The Delivery Driver lingers by the open doorway, one hand on a box, the other on their phone. They do not come closer, just watch Junebell with tired curiosity.

The Bartender stays inside the light, jaw tight, but their anger has cooled into a sharp, exhausted disbelief. The alley remains quiet enough to hear the bottle shift when Junebell grips it tighter.

For a moment, nobody moves. The open door, the half-drunk tap, and the stolen liquor all sit in the same breath, waiting for somebody to speak next.

Junebell slips deeper into the alley, the crate left behind. The back door stays open in her wake, spilling a thin slice of bar-light onto wet brick.

Her shoes scrape grit, then settle. She is farther from the doorway now, out of easy reach, but the bottle knocks once against her side.

Inside, something metal clatters hard enough to ring through the alley. The Delivery Driver glances over their shoulder, phone lowering a little.

The Bartender shifts in the doorway, irritation sharpening again as they look past Junebell, toward the sound instead of her.

The alley goes quiet again, except for the distant truck idling at the curb and the tap hissing inside the bar. Junebell has her space, for the moment, but both adults are listening now.

Junebell hugs the alley wall and tries to melt into the dark, bottle tucked tight against her belly. The wet brick and trash bins give her cover, but her boots scrape loose grit at the worst possible moment.

The scrape carries back to the doorway. The Bartender snaps their head her way, eyes narrowing as the dim shape of Junebell stops being just a shadow.

The Delivery Driver barely looks up, already annoyed at the delay, and shifts the delivery box to one hip as if Junebell is one more thing blocking their night.

Inside the bar, something heavy bumps and drags, then stops. The alley’s quiet turns thin and brittle, with nowhere easy left to hide.

Junebell is still in the alley, but not lost in it. The doorway has her now, and both adults are watching for her next move.

Junebell tips the bottle back and drinks hard, throat working fast. The alley smells like wet brick and old fryer grease as she drains it, then jerks her arm up and hurls the glass.

The bottle spins end over end through the doorway light and smacks the Bartender in the face. They flinch back with a sharp curse, one hand flying up, the other stumbling against the jamb.

The Delivery Driver freezes, box still under one arm, then gives Junebell a flat, unimpressed stare like this is just extra overtime.

Inside the bar, the heavy clatter comes again, louder this time, followed by a dragging scrape across the floorboards.

Both adults snap their attention inward for half a beat. Junebell has an opening, but the doorway is still lit and the night outside stays narrow.

Junebell lurches for the alley mouth, but her boots skitter on the wet brick and broken glass. She catches herself on one hand, shoulder slamming the wall, as the doorway light pins her in place for one ugly second.

The Bartender starts toward her, one hand dropping from their face. The Delivery Driver stays where they are, box tucked tight, watching the whole mess with the same tired indifference.

Inside the bar, the dragging scrape stops. Something heavy thumps once, hard enough to rattle the back door in its frame.

Junebell’s path to the street is still open, but now it is a bright strip of light with two sets of eyes on it and glass underfoot.

The alley answers with another metallic clatter from inside, and the sound makes the choice immediate.

Junebell snaps forward and spits. The glob arcs straight into the Bartender’s face, and they flinch hard, chin jerking back as it splatters across their cheek and shirt.

The Delivery Driver lets out a short laugh from the doorway, still holding the box like this is a late shipment and nothing more.

Behind them, the back door bangs again from the inside, harder this time, and both adults glance that way at once.

Junebell has the alley lane to herself for a beat, and the driver’s amused stare leaves the truck, the door, and the bartender all hanging in the same uneasy triangle.

Junebell slips through the alley mouth and keeps moving, low and fast, while the bartender and driver stay back by the door. The broken glass is left behind in the spill of bar light.

Then a hard metallic crash rings out from inside the Rusty Spigot, loud enough to snag every head in the alley and make Junebell’s path feel suddenly narrower.

The bartender turns toward the back door instead of Junebell, one hand braced on the frame, while the driver shifts his box and steps half a pace deeper into the doorway, still not joining the chase.

Junebell gets past the danger line and out of their reach, the alley swallowing her up beyond the truck’s idle rumble.

The driver gives no promise at all. Behind Junebell, the metal noise inside the bar bangs once more, forcing everyone left at the doorway to look back instead of after her.