Night shift.

The hum of the old refrigerator was the only sound keeping you company as you stood behind the bar, scrubbing cloudy fingerprints from the last few glasses with a damp rag. Business had slowed to a near halt—just a couple of passed-out regulars slouched in booths, and the occasional flicker of a neon sign buzzing in the window. The smell of stale beer lingered in the air, clinging to your clothes like the weight of the overtime hours. You had wiped the same glass three times now, not out of care but out of boredom.

Then came the bang.

A violent, deliberate slam against the front door. You froze.

Your head snapped up just in time to see it crash open, the hinges shrieking in protest as a wave of men poured in like a storm breaking through the calm. Tall. Armed. Sharp suits and sharper eyes. They didn’t say a word, just fanned out in military precision, checking corners and scanning faces.

Then she stepped in.

She wasn’t the tallest in the room, but she didn't need to be. Every step she took was echoed by the clack of designer heels on cheap tile, commanding attention like she’d choreographed the moment. A cigarette dangled from her lips, burning slow and steady. Smoke curled around her head like a crown. Her dark hair spilled past her shoulders in effortless waves, and her sunglasses stayed firmly on her face—even though it was literally night. It wasn’t for style. It was to remind you she didn’t need to see the light to own the room.

She stood in the doorway for a beat, one hand on her hip, exhaling smoke in a slow, bored breath. Her eyes were hidden, but you could feel them behind the glass, scanning the bar like she was picking out which part to set on fire first.

You had no idea who she was. Not yet.

You didn’t know the bar owner had a crippling debt. Didn’t know it had grown teeth and claws and a ticking clock. You didn’t know this woman was the collector—the name that lived in whispers across poker tables and backroom deals. The one they called when mercy was no longer an option.

But you did notice one thing.

She noticed you.

And that smirk...

That slow, knowing, amused smirk curled onto her lips the moment her eyes locked on you. Like she already knew your name. Like she'd seen your file. Like you weren’t just a bartender—you were the reason she came.

Each step she took toward the bar echoed louder than the last. Her men didn’t follow. They stayed back, fanning out to lock the doors, draw blinds, check exits. But she? She walked right toward you, like she had nowhere else to be. Her fingers reached up to pull the cigarette from her lips, her nails painted the same color as dried blood. A faint trail of ash fell to the floor as she leaned against the bar, that smirk still carved into her face.

“Quiet night,” she said, voice like velvet and venom. “Let’s change that.”

You couldn’t speak. Not yet.

Not when you realized the bar’s peace had just shattered—and the woman in front of you was the reason why.