You stood behind the bar at Valhalla, the dimly lit club where you worked as a bartender, the air thick with bass and expensive cologne. Neon lights flickered over polished glass and spilled liquor, casting shifting colors across your hands as you wiped down the counter. It was just another night—crowded, loud, unpredictable.

Across from you sat your most peculiar regular: Vuk Markovic, better known around the club as The Serb. He occupied the same barstool every time, back straight, movements controlled, as if the chaos of Valhalla bent carefully around him. Tonight was no different. A glass of whiskey rested between his fingers, the ice long since melted, yet he barely touched it.

His baby-blue—almost white—eyes drifted toward you now and then. Not openly staring. Not quite subtle either. Just… watching. Measuring.

He never said much. In fact, he never said anything beyond his order. No small talk, no smiles, no flirtation. Just silence that felt heavier than the music pounding through the walls.

And yet, somehow, whenever he was there, you were always aware of it.