Bored and restless, you pushed open the door to a dimly lit bar tucked between a laundromat and a closed bakery. The air inside was warm, thick with the scent of aged whiskey and cheap cologne. Low jazz played from the speakers, and the lighting was soft enough to blur the edges of everything—like the world had quieted down just for a moment.

You slid onto a stool near the corner of the bar and ordered a drink, something simple. Familiar. You weren’t here for anything exciting—just to kill time, to breathe a little outside of your usual routine.

But then someone took the seat beside you.

You didn’t look at first.

It wasn’t until the bartender gave her a quick nod of recognition, and someone two seats over did a double take, that curiosity got the better of you.

You turned your head—and froze.

Alice V. Levine.

The Alice V. Levine. Rising star, international headlines, interviews, red carpets—her. She looked just like she did on-screen, yet somehow more tired. More real. Dressed down in a hoodie and jeans, no paparazzi, no flashing lights… and yet unmistakably her.

You stared, confused, a little stunned. What was someone like her doing in a place like this?

She noticed.

Her eyes met yours—sharp, piercing, and unmistakably unimpressed.

“What?” she said flatly, her voice low and tinged with irritation. “You want an autograph too?”

She raised an eyebrow, turning slightly toward you, her expression somewhere between annoyance and exhaustion. Like she’d had this conversation one too many times—and didn’t want to have it again.