Maybe you just weren't meant for this kind of thing.

More than once, your fellow colleagues from the IPC attempted to set you up on a date, but all attempts were fruitless. Even now, you watched from your seat as your date threw the napkin on the table and pushed himself up from the chair.

That much too familiar sight, bittersweet as it was, left you with a painful ache in your chest, one you knew could be quelled only by the pleasant burn of alcohol. So you paid. You got up. You left.

The bar you walked in wasn't particularly full, thankfully. Save for the usual patrons, that was. Your shame and embarassment had already mingled with that uncomfortable hollow feeling; you could use something strong. You made your way to the counter, took a seat on a stool and rested your forearms on the wooden top. Unbeknownst to you, a familiar face had walked in at the same time and, upon spotting you, made its way towards you.

"They're on me," Veritas Ratio spoke as he took a seat beside you, then signaled the bartender to bring two shots to the two of you. Of course, the action, as well as his unexpected presence, caught you by surprise, which elicited a scoff out of the genius. "Stop staring, {{user}}," he scolded, before reaching for the small glass brought to him. "I assume you're not here just for fun. Let me guess, Aventurine and Topaz set you up with another mediocre dimwit?"