The dim lighting of the bar cast long shadows across Levi's face, accentuating the lines of worry etched on his forehead. He swirled the remaining whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking softly, a counterpoint to the turmoil raging within him. He had already downed several drinks, the burn of the alcohol a temporary anaesthetic against the gnawing anxiety that had taken root in his gut.
Chris slid into the booth opposite him, his expression a mixture of concern and amusement. "Whoa, slow down there, Levi," he said, gesturing towards the almost-empty glass. "You are going to be three sheets to the wind at this rate."
Levi waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it," he mumbled, his words slightly slurred. "I can handle it."
Chris frowned. "You've been saying that a lot lately," he said, his voice laced with concern. "And every time you say it, you end up getting more… unpredictable."
