Nico hesitated, letting Gareth go ahead of him, then followed him into the large hall. Peter, on the other hand, like a child at an amusement park, stayed behind the dog-man waiter, turning around to look around, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

  The air was filled with the smell of igari mixed with floral notes, a scent he could imagine in a 1920s bar. The music, a crackling jazz that glitched at times, came from an unknown source, mingling with the indistinct voices in the large hall.

  The waiter stopped next to a table cluttered with old peanuts and dirty glasses. One was overturned and dripping onto one of the four chairs. A little further on, near the wall, three individuals sat around a table that kept getting longer and shorter. No one seemed to notice. One of them wore a fedora with a small goldfish swimming inside; every time he leaned over to pick up peanuts, a few drops of water dripped from his hat.

  A tall, thin man—a sort of human spaghetti—crossed the room with his back bent, greeting this or that patron of the strange bar.

  In the center of the room, a plump man in a tailcoat stood motionless, his mouth wide open and a finger stuck inside it. When a woman bumped him aside with a modern supermarket shopping cart, the music stopped abruptly. Someone muttered; others protested, demanding that it resume. The man composed himself, adjusted his tailcoat, cleared his throat, then reopened his mouth and stuck his finger back in, and the music resumed.

  Nico's eyes darted from side to side while Peter barked something at the waiter. Nico tried to sit down, but the floor came up against him.

  He turned abruptly, looking for the stool: it had moved to one side and was pointing at him, agitated, its legs tapping on the floor. It was ranting about people's indecency, then scampered away on all fours, indignant.

  Nico scratched his head, puzzled, and got up.

  Another waiter approached the table. He was short and stocky, his clothes dirty, his face marked by a disreputable expression. With one forearm, he swept everything off the table, knocking over glasses and bowls full of peanuts in a crash of broken glass. Then he placed a dented metal tray with three pints of a dark, thick liquid in front of Nico, Peter, and Gareth.

  Gareth grabbed the mug and raised it to his lips, while Nico dried the wet chair before sitting down. Gareth paused, the mug mid-air, sniffed it, and wrinkled his nose. He cautiously dipped a finger into the drink and brought it to his mouth, barely touching it with his tongue. Immediately afterwards, he recoiled.

  “This is burnt oil!”

  Peter burst out laughing. “What did you expect? Do you know what kind of place this is?”

  Gareth slammed the pint on the table, his fists clenched, but didn't reply.

  Nico glanced from Peter to the room and asked, “What kind of place is this?”

  Peter slammed his fist on the table. A crooked smile played on his lips. “This is the Waiting Room.” He paused briefly. “Or, as the uninitiated call it, the dismantling room.”

  “Waiting for what?” Nico frowned.

  Peter shrugged. “Where do you think everyone waiting to be sorted ends up? Not everyone has the exclusivity and speed of service that you had,” he said, pointing at Nico.

  Nico's eyes widened. Gareth muttered to himself, “Of course. He's a player. It was necessary.”

  Peter nodded, suddenly serious. “Exactly. And everyone else... is here.”

  “These guys,” Peter said quietly, glancing around the room, “are all NPCs waiting to be repaired. They're all game glitches. Corrupted code.”

  That term made Nico jump.

  “Corrupted?” he asked abruptly, feeling a twinge in his stomach. “You mean... infected by Erebos?”

  Peter shook his head. “Don't worry. Yes, the game is in trouble. Yes, everything needs to be fixed before Erebos ends up infecting everything, inside and outside of here, but them,” he pointed to the room, "people, beasts, NPCs, call them what you will, they're just worn-out code. Like a suit worn too many times. I don't think those infected by Erebos could all fit in one room, imagine the mess."

  Nico nodded slowly. He let his gaze wander around the room, then lowered his eyes to the mug in front of him. Thinking, he grabbed it and brought it to his lips.

  A shrill voice came from behind him: “It was him.”

  Nico turned around. It was a stool, perhaps the same one he had tried to sit on. Next to it stood a porcelain basin, supported by oxidized brass lion's paws; the ceramic was chipped on one side.

  The stool continued: “Do you realize? You have to do something. Defend my honor or it's over between us.”

  Nico stared at them, eyes wide, lips parted, but no words came out.

  The basin growled. “You dared to sit on my lady. It's war.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Nico turned to Peter. His eyes were shining, his face lit up with childlike joy. Gareth, at his side, leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, a slight crooked smile on his face.

  Nico shook his head and took a deep breath. It was clear that he would get no help from either of them.

  “Um... I already apologized to your, um, lady stool...”

  “I don't care,” roared the bathtub. The music stopped abruptly. “I'll smash your face in,” it roared, rising up on two legs.

  Several patrons left their seats and gathered around them, forming a circle of onlookers.

  Nico jumped up and tried to back away. He stumbled, knocking over the chair he was sitting on.

  Behind the bar, the tentacled man muttered in an absurd tenor voice, “No fighting in my bar.”

  A disappointed “oh” rose from the room. Then someone in the crowd shouted, “Drinking contest!”

  A moment later, an ovation erupted all around. “Yes!”

  Peter included.

  Nico turned to Peter and Gareth, moving closer to the center of the table. He leaned over, lowering his voice. Their heads drew closer: Peter was beaming, while Gareth watched the scene with amused curiosity.

  “Hey...” Nico murmured. “Come on, give me a hand. How do I get out of this?”

  Peter nodded, his face suddenly serious.

  “Leave it to me.”

  Nico felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

  Peter stood up straight and shouted, “Landlord! To start with, two of your darkest beers.”

  A roar of applause erupted in the hall. Nico's stomach tightened.

  A girl with long black hair and an angular face made her way through the crowd. She was carrying a silver tray engraved with gold, on which rested two chipped mugs filled with a dark liquid. Nico had the impression that something black was floating inside them. He swallowed with difficulty.

  He was sitting at the table. In front of him, the tub held a lion's paw resting on the table. Around him, the crowd shouted in broken tones, mixing words with animal sounds. Someone bet that Nico would lose at the first sip. Nico wanted to bet too. At least he would get something out of this story.

  He lifted the mug. The glass was cold between his fingers. The smell hit him immediately: oily, with an iron aftertaste. Nico clenched his jaw, his face tense, holding the mug suspended in front of his face.

  “Together!” croaked a red macaw perched on the shoulder of the man collecting bets.

  The bathtub grabbed its mug with a lion's paw, tilted it, and poured the liquid into its porcelain body. A deep gurgling sound filled the air. Immediately afterwards, the bathtub exploded in a thunderous burp, greeted by a standing ovation.

  Nico nodded, searching for Peter and Gareth in the crowd. He didn't see them. He brought the mug to his mouth and, instinctively, pursed his lips, turning his face to one side. A shiver of disgust ran through his stomach.

  “Down! Down! Down!” roared the room.

  The retch rose in his throat. Nico opened his mouth wide and swallowed a mouthful. The liquid lingered between his tongue and palate. His jaw tightened.

  The oily, iron taste spread down his throat and up into his nostrils. Another wave of nausea washed over him.

  Then the taste changed.

  The oiliness vanished and the iron melted away. What remained was a familiar bitterness, tasted on one of his first nights in the game. Beer.

  He swallowed.

  He looked around and met Gareth's gaze: frowning, intrigued, perplexed. Nico felt the same way. He hadn't expected that change. But perhaps, in that place of dismantled people, as Peter had called them, even liquids liked to change.

  He quickly drank the rest of the pint and the bitter taste went down his throat cold and pleasant, then with a sharp thud, he placed the empty mug on the table.

  The waiting room exploded in another ovation, this time for him.

  Nico wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, while the tub roared again, banging its oxidized brass fist on the table.

  The waitress elbowed her way through the crowd, carrying another tray, this time with four mugs. Nico grabbed one, then a cry broke the buzz.

  “He's coming!”

  The tub in front of Nico exploded in a shrill scream, throwing the mug into the air, and a second later, everything descended into chaos. Everyone started shouting excitedly, walking back and forth in panic.

  Nico, still seated, was being pushed in different directions, while he felt the chair beneath him scraping the floor as it tried to move. He felt a push in the back and someone else pulled the chair out from under him, and he almost fell again.

  Objects, stools, tables, and chairs kicked and crawled across the floor, tilted, bumped into each other, then moved toward a corner of the room. The beds that formed the counter overturned with a dull thud and arranged themselves in neat rows, leaning against the wall. The sheets tucked themselves in at the corners, stretching out smooth and tidy.

  The seal rolled toward a bunk, the man with dog ears jumped onto a chair and crouched down. Among the animals, humans, and objects, some huddled in a corner or under a table, others slipped into beds. Someone grabbed Nico's wrist and snatched the mug from his hand.

  Then, suddenly, the light went out and everything stopped.

  Nico stood still, his breath caught halfway, a half-smile on his lips. He could feel Gareth tense beside him and Peter's restless presence on the other side.

  The door at the end of the corridor opened and a tall figure approached, dressed in white, with an albino face and milky eyes illuminated by the light of the oil lamp he held in his hand.

  Peter moved closer, so close that Nico could feel his warm breath on his ear. He raised a hand, shielding his lips. “What use is a lamp to a blind man?”

  It was the Archivist.

  “You shouldn't be here.”

  Peter opened his mouth, ready to offer an explanation, but Nico jerked his arm.

  “Subject N_01.”

  Nico felt a knot, like a hand squeezing his throat.

  “You should rest. Tomorrow we will proceed with the integrity check.”