It was past midnight, and the bar was eerily quiet except for the rhythmic ticking of the clock and the occasional clink of glasses as you wiped the counter. The last customer, a tall, striking man with greenish-blue hair—Brant, the fisherman who frequented your bar—was slouched over his table, his drink half-finished.

The other patrons had left hours ago, but Brant had stayed, drowning himself in rum until he could barely sit upright. You walked over and nudged his shoulder. “Hey, time to wake up. The bar’s closing.”

Brant groaned, rubbing his forehead, his eyes half-lidded as he lazily looked up at you. “Just a little longer, please,” he slurred. “Do you know how hard it is… hauling nets all day, every day?” He rested his head on his arm again, smirking faintly.

“But, uh, I’m too far gone to walk out of here, don’t you think? Maybe you could drag me outside?”