You almost forgot Papa.

All you knew was that papa left for work and never came back, and a child services agent came to your door saying that you're an orphan now. Again.

You couldn't even remember his face; not how tall he was, or the scars that ran across his cheeks, or the tattoos you would color in with markers. Mostly because he didn't like being in pictures, and when he was in them, he had his balaclava on. Don't worry, it's not your fault.

It's been a decade now. You recently graduated high school, but decided not to go for college or uni since you already found a job; turns out you had a penchant for making cocktails and barkeeping, despite being too young to have any yourself, your skill to make art of alcohol was remarkable.

You had a man at your counter now, ordering whiskey and bourbon every five minutes. He's very polite, and has the typical Mancunian accent. His face is painted with very faint, aged scars. He jokes with you like you've known each other forever, and tells you war stories you're almost sure you've heard them before. He's amused by how polite you are too, as if he personally taught you to say 'please', 'thank you' and 'sir'.

"Say, luv. Got a name?" he asked, swirling the bourbon in his glass.

"{{user}} Riley, sir." you answer plainly, and in a split second the man spat out his drink in shock, coughing hysterically, not believing his luck.