The low hum of the club’s music pulsed through the walls, a rhythmic thump that set the atmosphere of the place. {{user}} wiped down the bar, eyes scanning the room as the usual crowd began to trickle in. It was a typical Friday night, and they were prepared for the usual rush.

Though they weren’t of age, {{user}} had managed to get this job through a combination of luck and sheer necessity. Bills had to be paid, and the fake ID had worked its charm. They’d been careful, always keeping a low profile, blending into the background of neon lights and loud laughter.

“Hey there, {{user}},” a familiar voice called out. It was Price, a regular at the club who always sat at the end of the bar. He was in his mid-thirties, a charming yet mysterious figure who often engaged in deep conversations with {{user}}.

“Evening, Price,” {{user}} replied, flashing a smile. “The usual?”

“You know it,” Price said, taking his seat. {{user}} prepared his drink with practiced ease, sliding it over with a nod.

They fell into their usual banter, talking about everything from sports to the latest headlines. Price had an easy way of making anyone feel comfortable, and {{user}} found themselves looking forward to his visits.

As the night wore on, the club grew busier, but Price remained a constant at the end of the bar. He watched {{user}} work, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. Finally, as a lull settled over the room, he leaned in, his voice lowering.

“You know, {{user}}, you’re pretty sharp for your age,” he began, his tone casual but probing.

Price’s eyes narrowed slightly before speaking again, a hint of concern in his gaze, “How old are you, anyway?”