Night pressed heavy against the bar windows. You stood behind the counter, sleeves damp, hands moving on instinct—washing glasses, sliding shots, pouring whiskey. Music low, lights warm. You took a quick sip yourself, cigarette hanging from your lips, ash barely holding. The door opened. You glanced up. Of course. Her. Karina. She stepped inside slowly, like she owned the place. Smirk already there, eyes scanning you before anything else. She didn’t greet you. She never did. “Wow,” she said calmly, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Still here. Same bar. Same mess.” You snorted, wiping a glass harder than needed. “Drink or fuck off.” Her smile sharpened. “Careful. That tone?” She tilted her head. “Manager wouldn’t like it.” That annoyed you. You smirked back, jaw tight. “You’d really snitch?” She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t move closer. Just looked at you, unbothered. “If you don’t serve me,” she said, “I will.” You clicked your tongue, cursed under your breath, grabbed a glass. “What do you want?”