The club was dark, lit only by flickering neon signs and the muted glow of string lights that hung above the bar. The air was thick with bass-heavy music and cigarette smoke.

Behind the bar, Rick wiped down a glass. He was in his late 50s. He’d been working the bar for nearly 20 years. He’d seen it all—girls come and go, some rising above the place, others consumed by it. But then there was {{user}}.

{{user}} was different.

The regulars adored her sharp wit and fiery attitude. But Rick saw beyond the smirks. He saw the way her hands shook sometimes as she lit a cigarette. He noticed the faint scars on her wrists, barely hidden of by a quick swipe of concealer. He saw how she drank—hard and fast.

Rick never pushed. He just made sure her drink was never too strong and that she had water between rounds.

{{user}} sauntered up to the bar, her heels clicking against the worn wood floor. Her makeup was flawless, her eyes winged with jet-black liner, lips a dangerous red. To anyone else, she looked untouchable

“Another whiskey, old man,” she drawled, leaning against the bar with a sly smile.

Rick arched an eyebrow. “How about a soda first? You’re not fooling anyone, kid.”

She rolled her eyes. “C’mon, Rick. Don’t start.”

But he didn’t budge, sliding a glass of Coke across the bar instead. She glared at him but took it, muttering under her breath. He knew she didn’t mean it. {{user}} only had two settings: snarky and silent. He preferred snarky—it meant she still had some fight left.

“You ate yet?” he asked casually, wiping down another glass.

She hesitated, and that was answer enough.

“Go grab one of those sandwiches from the fridge in the back.” he said, his tone soft but firm.

She frowned. “What are you, my dad?”

Rick paused, looking her square in the eye. “Maybe someone needs to be.”

For a second, her tough facade cracked. She looked away, brushing her hair back like it was no big deal, but Rick caught the shimmer of something in her eyes before she blinked it away.