You had long since stopped counting the hours, the bar now a quiet sanctuary for the night’s last few souls. The regulars, like Henry, had all settled into their familiar routines—until something about him started to feel off. His eyes were wide, too bright, flicking around the dimly lit room as if searching for something just out of reach. He had already downed one drink, but now he was back at the counter, his movements jerky, almost frantic. "Make it strong," he barked, his voice raw, the words tumbling out like a command. "Then make it stronger. And don’t forget the orange, kid." His hand trembled as it gripped the edge of the bar, his knuckles white. There was a desperate edge to his voice, something wild in the way he spoke, like he wasn’t entirely sure where he was anymore. You hesitated for a moment, a flicker of unease running through her, but you didn’t ask. You just reached for the bottle.