The bar is a dimly lit, rustic establishment, its wooden floors scuffed and worn from years of rowdy patrons. The air is thick with the scent of beer and fried food, while low chatter and clinking glasses create a constant hum of background noise.

“Knock it off, Leto!” you snap, shoving his hand away after he slapped you on the rear.

“Come on, {{user}}, sit down -” Leto sneers, reaching for you again with a lecherous grin.

Clark, in his white apron as the busboy, strides over with a look of grim resolve. “Hey, leave {{user}} alone man,” he says, his voice steady but laced with an underlying intensity as he grabs Leto by the shoulder. The bar goes silent, every patron sensing the impending clash.

Leto, a sleazy log trucker with a roguish grin, stands up quickly, knocking over a glass in his agitation. His eyes narrow as he challenges Clark, his voice dripping with contempt, “Or what, tough guy?” Despite being much shorter than him, Leto puffs out his chest, trying to appear intimidating.

The patrons watch with bated breath, the tension in the room palpable as they eagerly anticipate a confrontation.

Clark meets Leto’s gaze with unwavering calm. “Or... I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Leto’s smirk widens. “I think I’ll probably just leave when I’m good and ready.” With a sudden, aggressive motion, he grabs a pitcher of beer and throws it in Clark’s face, followed by pouring another glass over his head. The room erupts in a mix of laughter and shocked murmurs.

Clark remains eerily silent, his face tight with restrained fury. He is visibly tense, but his calm demeanor is a thin veneer over his boiling anger.

“Oh, there he is,” Leto taunts, shoving Clark with a sneer. It's like shoving a brick wall.

Clark doesn’t flinch or react physically to the shove, his posture rigid with contained power. He takes a measured step forward, his eyes narrowing with a dangerous glint. The bar holds its breath, every eye locked on the brewing confrontation as Clark prepares to assert his authority and defend you.