To live by violence is to die from violence. That's a thing Howie has learned. Mortality is human nature, and murder is God's way of dying. Humans kill each other the same way gods kill other gods. It is yet another piece of his forgotten past that only comes to him when he least expects it to. From somewhere in his forgotten life history, he had known someone who had pointed out to him about how gods brutalize each other in almost all iteration of birth and becoming, when they want to take over the throne or when they want to reclaim it. In whichever pantheon and mythology you choose to look, you will find them, the exact way you'd find them in the horrific ways people treat each other. It's the God in us, he surmises, that we draw these ideas from. It would seem like deep down human beings inherently take after their makers. Mankind has done a great job modeling their deities in the shape of their own reflections, gore and all.

In the cycle of creation and destruction, chaos is an integral part, just like death. But someone out there has made dead bodies rise up from the ground as if the very thing that has killed them is the reason for their revival. And something tells Howie that having that limit removed from the pattern of his existence is yet another evidence of man trying to one-up God in their own game.

"Did we really just kill each other to spare each other's lives?" Howie asks ambiguously, earning confused looks from the three men situated around him. They have fully recovered moments ago, and a few more minutes later, have started to pull themselves up from the floor and finally began moving about, checking themselves as they call back to their memories to help fill in the gaps in their mind. They sit disorientated on the other chairs that hadn't been turned to dust by the earlier fight. Wolfgang and G are clearly rattled; they have not spoken a single word ever since and have only managed to gape at their coworkers in apprehension, with Santi and Howie's calmness and composure a stark contrast to their feelings of disturbance.

"Why ask that all of a sudden?" Santi rejoins, obviously irritated by Howie's nonsensical commentaries. He already feels awful enough, having experienced being virtually stretched in half and having his windpipes crushed mere moments ago, and now he has to deal with all of the newbie's ramblings like the day already couldn't get worst, with the sunlight having just started to peek in handfuls from behind the dark skies outside.

"We killed each other?" Wolfgang mumbles uncomfortably.

"It's not like you didn't know, Wolfgang," Howie puts forth in umbrage. He'd like to argue but time doesn't call for it, and besides, he has his plate already full of the task of straightening up the bar and picking up broken pieces of furniture and decorations from the floor. An hour or so later and Mr. Jeon would surely show up, and he doesn't want the owner to see what they had done to his precious Roundtable. The black garbage bag he is holding is almost stuffed. Santi promptly helps him out by collecting wood and glass fragments and putting them away in his own garbage bag. G decidedly partakes in the cleanup operation as well, but his eyes just keep glazing over the objects he is picking up, absentmindedly fetching things that aren't necessarily destroyed or affected in anyway, and instead is just aimlessly rearranging things that shouldn't be rearranged.

"Sit down, G, you're not helping," Santi calls out to him, to which G regards with a flustered nod as he goes right back to where he had been seated, still staring into nothing completely in a daze.

"What do you mean?" Wolfgang asks, his eyes pleading at Howie who seems to be judging him unreasonably.

"Are spies supposed to be that clueless, or are you just made to act like it?" Howie retorts impatiently.

Wolfgang abruptly stands up and walks directly towards the newbie, stopping just a few inches in front of him. "What the are you trying to say, Howie?" he asks again, this time adamant to get a proper answer.

Santi sighs heavily, shutting his eyes close for a few seconds before opening them again and staring down at his two coworkers who apparently aren't done yet with all the bickering. G has this impression about him that tells everyone he wants to diffuse the situation as well, but he's just too confused that he doesn't know what to do with all his feelings. "Will you two just shut the up already?" Santi nags, but Wolfgang only scoffs at him.

"And what are you now, a pacifist? I thought you didn't give a ," the senior bartender spews bitterly. Not waiting for his coworker's response, Wolfgang arbitrarily goes back to confront Howie and presses on. "Don't think for a second I'm not catching on to what you're doing, Howie. All this spy talk—what, are you trying to blame me for something?"

"It's not like you didn't shoot me with a gun three times yesterday, Wolfgang, come on!" Howie squares up at his coworker, prepared for yet another brawl. Wolfgang looks at him funny, which makes the newbie pause. He turns to his other two coworkers for a reaction, but Santi and G just mirror the senior bartender's countenance back to Howie.

"What?" Wolfgang's voice falls flat. Howie's gaze flips between the other three bar employees, all with the same confounded expression.

"What are you talking about, Howie? He was here with us the whole day yesterday. You're the one who went missing for nearly seventeen hours," Santi refutes, the agitation mixed with bafflement evident in his tone. "Is that what you mean when you told me on the phone that there's a spy in The Roundtable?" he furrows his eyebrows, squinting hard at the newbie. "Where did you even get that idea from?"

"It wasn't an idea, Santi. I got shot," declares Howie, his voice rising an octave higher. "And I saw both of your death certificates to prove that even if by some goddamn miracle you really aren't spies, you're still hiding something from us."

"Death certificates?" the pale bar employee echoes, his eyes diverting from the furious newbie over to his other stupefied coworkers.

"," Howie blurts out in frustration. In that moment, something had shifted, and he could tell it from the thickness of the tension in the air. He stops working on his chore entirely and instead takes a few steps back from the bloodied scene and onto the bar. He starts fidgeting with the bottles on the counter and opts to pour himself some of the first drink he could grab—an ample amount of vodka, befitting his rather complicated quandary. He downs the shot in one go, feeling the alcohol burn the walls of his mouth and the back of his throat.

"Howie, what the hell is going on," Santi pries, urging the newbie to come clean.

"I ed up," Howie utters quietly, resting his elbows on the counter wearily as he drags out a breath, his head hanging low and his face out of his coworkers' view. Howie is not meant to be seen by whoever it had been that appeared to be Wolfgang's doppelganger, he knows that much now. "," he curses again, letting out his disappointment in intermittent sighs. After a moment, he raises his head again and stares at Santi dead in the eyes. "Someone's playing a sick trick on us, man," he warns, garnering concerned glances from the rest of the bar staff.

"If you don't tell me what the is going on, I swear, I'd beat the out of you again," Santi threatens as he grips the piece of his broken guitar that he's found lying on the floor he has been tidying. 

"Somebody really shot me. And I'm sure of what I've seen. It's Wolfgang," Howie divulges, not breaking his eye contact with Santi. "But if you're all clueless about it then it means one of us is lying, and that can't be me. Unless..." he wavers, pouring himself another glass of vodka and drinking it, swiftly shifting his glance to the tall bartender before he continues. "Someone's out there pretending to be you, Wolf."

The men are unexpectedly interrupted by police sirens blaring outside the bar establishment, causing them to fall silent. Two officers hop off of their police mobile and arrive at the entrance. One of them unceremoniously knocks on the glass door while they both peer through it inspecting the interior of the bar. Howie instantly tenses up, as the rest of the bar staff traded vigilant eyes. Wolfgang lets the officers in, and they enter looking around the whole place, their vision incidentally falling upon the mess that is only partly being taken care of. There are bags of trash, a plethora of broken things, and something black and viscous that had stained the black-tiled floors, making them glisten and reflect oddly under the light.

"What's going on?" Howie questions, getting up from where he is behind the bar and walking towards the two newcomers. He stands next to Wolfgang, purposefully obscuring the view of the cluttered area. One of the officers, the younger and shorter one, tries to peer over his shoulder, but he keeps adjusting his body to further block the cop from his inspections. Something about the man's face, his narrow eyes, and how his mouth specifically curls upward at either side that makes it seem like even his serious face is a smiling one, leads Howie to believe he has seen this officer before. His pupils dilate a smidgen as realization slowly settles in, but he tries his best to hold his reaction so as not to raise suspicions. 

"Early morning, gentlemen," says the taller cop, his deep voice booms across the vicinity as he tries to be jovial and cheerful in greeting the employees. "We've received a call about a commotion of sorts in this bar. What seems to be the problem? I see there's something going on over there, care to explain that?"

"Oh, that's just..." Wolfgang falters as he gestures vaguely towards the general direction of the place that had earlier been an octagon ring for the four of them. "Renovations," the senior bartender coughs awkwardly, stifling a chuckle.

"Huh, so that's what all that banging and loud noises had been about?" 

"Who are you anyway?" Howie interrupts, scrutinizing the two men.

The taller cop straightens himself and puffs his chest at the newbie, staring right back down at him. "I'm Captain Richard Park, and this is my companion, Sergeant Daniel Lee," the cop answers. "Sorry for the intrusion, folks. I think there's been a mistake," he adds, preparing to leave, until Sergeant Lee catches his attention. His subordinate seems fixated on the bar employee with the sharp eyes and resolute demeanor standing in front of him. "Lee, you alright?"

"Yes, sir," Sergeant Lee responds distractedly.

"Well, that should be it then," Captain Park states. "Maybe next time don't make renovations so early in the morning," he advises the four men.

"We sure won't," Wolfgang replies affably. 

"Lee?" Captain Park repeats, waiting for the sergeant to get a move on. But his subordinate stays rooted in his place, eyeing one of the bar employees harshly. There is recognition displayed in the younger officer's features that makes the captain curious himself. "What is it, Lee?"

"Aren't you that YCC courier from yesterday?" Sergeant Lee asks Howie, whose eye twitches imperceptibly. On the outside there is not a single thing that could give the very real shock he has just felt when the police officer confirms his hunch.

"Who?" Howie's forehead wrinkles in question. He may appear unaffected but deep within him, panic alarms have been set off and have been blaring nonstop.

"You're the one who delivered the bullets," Sergeant Lee avows.

"Wait, are you sure? 'Cause yesterday I was miles away, in Sector 16. I couldn't possibly be anywhere near the 17's police station," Howie scoffs, trying to act casual.

"Huh," Sergeant Lee relents,