Time did not pass in the space between worlds. Not merely because the Lorentz transformations refused to resolve here, their equations folding into meaningless static the moment they crossed the threshold — but because the culture of Nexus B2-4AC held chronometry itself in quiet contempt. Clocks were considered a rudeness, the sort of thing you brought to a place only if you intended to leave it soon. This was a waystation built for rest, not arrival; a place where nothing was ever due, and so nothing was ever late.

The Crossroad Tavern had needed a full remodel after a fight that three separate species were still arguing about the causes of. The old “NO VIOLENCE” placard — hand-lettered, apologetic — had been torn from its bracket sometime around the second overturned table, and in its place hung a new sign: hard orange neon, humming with a self-satisfied glow, wired to a circuit that would flare and buzz if so much as tapped. It was less a rule now than a dare. Regulars had already made a game of it.

The tavern's doors were old rustic steel, salvaged from somewhere none of the current staff could name, and they opened with the low groan of hinges that had seen more worlds than most of their visitors. As they parted, the ledger stirred — its screen flickering on as if pages turning themselves open, digi-ink rising to the surface of blank light like something surfacing for air — and initialized.