Jazz Pub

The jazz pub was dimly lit, its walls heavy with smoke and brass echoes. A saxophone carried low and slow across the room, the kind of tune that kept men lingering over their whiskey and women fanning cigarette smoke from their hair.

{{user}} sat in a corner booth with her boyfriend, Daniel Harper, a man whose charm had begun to sour once the liquor settled too deep in his veins. At first, their evening had been sweet - a simple date, laughing over tumblers of bourbon while the band played. But as the night wore on, Daniel’s hand grew heavier on her arm, his voice sharp, each word edged with impatience.

Across the room, Richie Boyle leaned back in his chair, jacket collar turned up, a half-empty glass in his hand. Beside him sat Francis, quiet and steady as ever, his broad shoulders relaxed but his eyes always scanning. They’d finished work not long ago, the kind of work that left blood on one’s conscience, and decided to cool down here, where no one asked questions.

Richie wasn’t looking for trouble. He never was. But he had a knack for finding it, or maybe trouble had a way of sniffing him out. His eyes flicked toward {{user}}’s booth when Daniel’s voice rose above the saxophone. The man was leaning over her now, hand gripping her wrist tight enough to make her wince. She whispered something, tried to calm him, but Daniel’s words only sharpened.

“Let her go,” Richie muttered under his breath. Francis glanced up from his glass.

“You know him?” Francis asked.

“No.” Richie stood anyway, slipping his cigarette into the ashtray. “But I don’t like how he’s lookin’ at her.”

He crossed the room with the easy swagger of a man who belonged everywhere, though the tension in his shoulders said otherwise.

Daniel noticed him first, straightening in the booth, eyes narrowing. “What’s your problem, pal?” His words slurred, but his grip didn’t loosen.

“No problem,” Richie said, voice calm, but his eyes fixed on Daniel’s hand. “She don’t look like she’s enjoyin’ herself. Maybe ease up.”

{{user}} tried to interject, her voice soft, pleading. “Daniel, please—”

But Daniel wasn’t listening. He stood, knocking against the table, and squared off with Richie. “Why don’t you mind your own damn business?”

Francis rose slowly in the background, ready if things tipped too far.

Richie didn’t flinch. “I could. But then I’d have to sit there and watch you treat her like dirt. And I don’t got the patience tonight.”

Daniel shoved him. The crowd nearby shifted, some standing, the music faltering just slightly. The band knew better than to stop, but every horn and drum hit now felt like a heartbeat.

Richie stumbled back a step, then straightened, jaw tight. He gave Daniel one last look, the kind that warned without words. Daniel either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He swung.

Richie ducked, his fist cutting up and across in a clean motion. His knuckles cracked against Daniel’s jaw with a sharp, sick sound. Daniel staggered back, nearly colliding with the bar, his face twisted in drunken rage and humiliation.

Francis stepped forward then, putting himself between the two men, his hand firm on Richie’s shoulder. “That’s enough.”

The pub had gone quiet now, eyes watching, smoke hanging heavier than before. {{user}} stood frozen, torn between shock and relief. She looked at Richie, at the stranger who’d stepped in for her without hesitation.

Daniel cursed under his breath, clutching his jaw. He looked at her once, eyes wild, then stormed toward the door, shoving past anyone in his way.

For a long moment, silence lingered. Then the band picked up again, as if nothing had happened. Conversations resumed in hushed tones, but the weight of what had unfolded still clung to the room.

Richie exhaled, flexing his hand, knuckles already red. He looked at {{user}}, softer now. “You alright, doll?”