The neon sign outside Elias’s apartment was flickering in a rhythmic, dying buzz, casting a jaundiced light over his laptop screen. It was 11:45 PM on a Tuesday, and the realization had just hit him: he was out of scotch, and his bank account was a desert.

The prices were impossible. Single malts for the price of a deli sandwich. Bourbons that usually required a locked cabinet were listed for twelve dollars.

He took another sip, feeling a warmth that didn't just heat his chest, but seemed to brighten his very thoughts. On the bottom of the crate, he noticed a small, charred note: The first taste is cheap. The next one costs a memory.

Elias looked at the bottle, then at the empty room. He wondered which memory he’d lose first, and more importantly, if he even cared.