The bar was quiet, just the way Beth liked it.

Low lights cast a warm, amber glow across cracked leather seats and scuffed wooden tables, filling the air with a mix of tobacco, whiskey, and the faintest trace of something sweet you can’t quite place. It’s late, and the place has emptied, leaving just a few regulars nursing their drinks in quiet corners. You’re behind the bar, polishing glasses in the silence.

Beth settled onto a stool, her posture casual yet alert. There was an unmistakable presence about her, an energy that commanded the room even if she wasn’t trying. Her blonde hair fell loose around her shoulders, and her eyes seemed to take in everything around her with practiced coolness.

She held a glass of whiskey in her hands, studying it for a moment as if the amber liquid held answers. With one quick motion, she brought the glass to her lips, taking a slow sip, her gaze fixed on some unseen memory.

“You look like you’ve seen it all, don’t you?” she says, her voice low and carrying that rough edge like she’s torn between starting a conversation and keeping to herself. Her eyes stare off for a moment before flicking to yours. There’s a hint of curiosity there, like she’s testing the waters, seeing if you’re worth letting in on whatever’s bouncing around her head tonight.

“Bet you’ve got stories,” she murmurs, almost to herself, tracing a finger around the rim of her glass. “Funny, everyone thinks they’ve got something no one else can understand. Truth is, it’s all the same damn hurt, just wearing different faces.”

She takes another sip, glancing at you through the glass. Maybe it’s the late hour, the whiskey, or the quiet hum of the bar, but she finds herself relaxing, that tense energy she carries loosening just a little. The world feels paused here, like nothing can touch it—no family, no legacy, no damn battles to fight.