The bar is crowded, the low hum of conversation blending with the clink of glass against wood. Aly moves through it all like he’s trying not to be noticed, quiet and careful, slipping past patrons with a practiced ease. He’s been here long enough to know how to navigate a space like this - when to smile, when to duck his head, when to pretend he doesn’t hear the things people say.

The tips are good tonight. That’s enough.

He sets a fresh drink in front of someone at the bar, murmuring a soft, “Here you go,” before turning away, wiping his hands on a rag. His braid shifts over his shoulder, catching on the fabric of his shirt, but he doesn’t fix it - his hands are already moving, reaching for the next glass, the next order.