The Last Round Before Sunrise

The group had been bar-hopping since early evening.

St. Patrick’s Day had turned the whole downtown area into a blur of green shirts, plastic shamrocks, and loud music pouring from every open doorway. By midnight, most of the popular bars were packed shoulder-to-shoulder.

Five friends wandered the streets looking for one last place to drink before heading home.

That was when they noticed the alley.

None of them had seen it earlier.

It sat between two brick buildings near the end of the block, lit by a single flickering streetlamp. At the far end of the narrow passage was a wooden door with a faded green sign hanging above it.

The sign simply read:

THE LAST ROUND

The door was already open.

Music drifted out.

Not loud party music like the other bars. Something slower. Old Irish folk music played on fiddles and whistles.

The group looked at one another.

The place didn’t appear on any of their map apps.

But it looked like a bar.

And the night wasn’t over yet.

They stepped inside.

The pub looked ancient.

Dark wood beams stretched across the ceiling. Dusty bottles lined the back wall behind the bar. The room was dimly lit with lanterns and green glass lamps.

Only a handful of people sat inside.

Most of them hunched quietly over drinks.

No one looked up when the group entered.

Behind the counter stood a tall bartender with gray hair and pale skin. He wore a dark vest and white shirt like something out of an old photograph.

He wiped a glass slowly as the group approached.

His expression never changed.

One of the friends asked if the bar was open.

The bartender nodded.

He gestured to the stools.

The group sat down and ordered drinks.

The bartender poured five glasses of dark beer.

He set them down in front of them.

When one of the friends reached for a wallet, the bartender raised a hand.

A small wooden sign hung on the bar.

DRINKS ARE FREE TONIGHT.

The group laughed.

Free drinks on St. Patrick’s Day felt like a miracle.

They started drinking.

The beer was strong.

Heavier than anything they had tasted that night.

But it was good.

Smooth.

The kind of drink that made the room feel warmer.

They ordered another round.

Then another.

The bartender poured each drink silently.

The other customers remained quiet.

Most of them sat with their heads slightly lowered, staring into their glasses.

The friends began to notice strange details.

The windows were covered.

No street sounds came from outside.

The music never seemed to change songs.

One of the friends eventually glanced at the clock on the wall behind the bar.

The hands pointed to 1:12 AM.

Ten minutes later they looked again.

The clock still read 1:12 AM.

Another friend checked their phone.

No signal.

The battery icon flickered strangely.

The time displayed 1:12 AM.

Unease crept through the group.

One of them stood up and walked toward the door.

It wouldn’t open.

The handle turned, but the door stayed firmly shut.

They tried pushing harder.

The wood didn’t move.

The bartender finally spoke for the first time.

His voice was calm.

Flat.

He explained the only rule of the pub.

No one was allowed to leave before sunrise.

The group laughed nervously.

They assumed it was a joke.

But the bartender didn’t smile.

One of them insisted on leaving.

The bartender simply gestured toward the back of the room.

Only then did the group notice the hallway.

It led to a narrow room behind the pub.

The walls inside were covered in photographs.

Dozens of them.

Old pictures.

Black-and-white portraits.

Polaroids.

Newer digital prints.

Each photo showed groups of people sitting at the bar.

Smiling.

Holding drinks.

Wearing green clothing.

Every photo had something in common.

The people in the pictures looked exactly like the friends standing in the hallway.

Different groups.

Different years.

But the same faces.

And beneath each photo was a small brass plaque.

MARCH 17

Every plaque had the same date.

Different years.

The final plaque at the end of the wall was empty.

Just a blank space.

Behind them, the music in the pub continued playing.

Slow.

Repetitive.

When the friends returned to the main room, the bartender had already prepared another round.

The other customers slowly lifted their heads.

The friends finally saw their faces clearly.

Their skin was pale.

Eyes hollow.

Mouths stained dark with something thicker than beer.

The bartender slid the glasses across the counter.

Outside, somewhere far above the building, the sky was beginning to lighten.

But the clock on the wall still read:

1:12 AM

The bartender calmly refilled the drinks.

The group realized the terrible truth as the other customers began standing.

Sunrise was coming.

And the bar had been waiting all night to serve its final round.