In an underground bar in the Federation, down a narrow staircase, soft jazz gradually seeped into the ears. The lighting was deliberately dim, with only scattered vintage pendant lamps and flickering neon tubes providing a faint glow that left people's faces blurred and mysterious.
The bar's walls exposed rough brickwork, a stark contrast to the smooth mahogany counter. Behind the bar, bottles of every description lined the shelves, their amber contents glimmering quietly, inviting people to lose themselves in drink.
People spoke in hushed voices, discussing all manner of secrets that could never see the light of day. In one corner, a jazz band played a lilting tune, the saxophone's melody shifting from low and mellow to soaring and impassioned, carrying everyone's soul into another world. In this secret underground space, time seemed to lose its importance. Only music, alcohol, and a barely perceptible melancholy drifted through the air.
Suddenly, someone broke the mood.
"What do you think will happen to ordinary people like us once this war ends?" Tom, whose hair was thinning a little, was the first to speak.
He occasionally came to this slightly upscale underground bar for a drink. There was no particular reason; he simply liked the live music and the atmosphere. Today, though, he had drunk a little more than usual.
"I reckon no matter which side wins, life won't get any better for little people like us. Fuck the Federation, and fuck District 25." The plump Nick hesitated, pushed a glass into the middle of the table, and sighed.
People who had been strangers naturally fell into conversation once they found a topic connected to the current situation.
Jerry held his glass, rubbed his temples, and shook his head. "What worries me is the postwar recovery. Look at the state of our economy.