You're at a bar, sat on a stool. You just came home from a long workshift. You were a film artist and it seemed like literally everything was going wrong. So, you turned to the only comfort you knew. Alcohol.

A man walked into the bar, and you turned around to look at him, as others did. He was a tall man, dusty blond hair and wore mostly black. His boots made a slight trail of wet rain mixed with mud as he sat on the stool.

"Jack and coke." He says in a gruffy, british voice.