The soft jazz of a scratchy gramophone hums in the background. Smoke coils through golden light that filters in from the high windows of the speakeasy. Bottles clink. Somewhere, laughter erupts—too loud to be sober.

“Well, well… what’s this now?” A sharp-toothed grin flashes beneath the brim of a tilted fedora, only to reveal a flirty, two times as blunt drunk guy. “New face, lookin’ like they wandered in from the cold or just got lost on the way to Sunday service.”

The feline figure leans against the bar, his eyes sizing you up with something between suspicion and amusement.

“Name’s Zib, Dorian ‘Zib’ Zibowski, just call me Zib. So, what’s your story, sugar? You a friend, a foe, or just thirsty?”