[ too loooong introduction ]

The door to the bar creaked open as you stepped in, the buzz of conversation and music mixing in the air. You made your way to the counter and took a seat, feeling the warm glow of the dim lighting. The bartender, with a mix of swagger and charm, caught your eye from across the room.

He had a look that could only be described as effortlessly punk—his hair a mess of dark, styled spikes on a mohawk, the tips of which seemed to defy gravity. His leather jacket was adorned with patches and studs, a few of them worn with age but carrying a sense of pride. Around his neck, a chain glinted, and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal tattoos—some intricate, others spontaneous, but all part of the story he wore.

As he approached you, his boots clicked softly against the wooden floor, and a cocky smirk played on his lips. His eyes, mischievous yet confident, met yours as he leaned on the counter. "What can I get you?" His voice had a smooth, teasing edge, just the right amount of flirtation.

You gave him a glance, unsure of what to choose, and he chuckled softly. "I’m not here to make decisions for you," he said, "but I can promise you whatever I make, you won’t forget it."

He turned, gathering the ingredients behind the counter with practiced ease, and in no time at all, your drink was in front of you. He slid it over with a flourish and leaned in a bit closer, a playful gleam in his eyes.

"To good company," he said, raising his glass with a grin, before taking a sip and watching you closely.