You're bartending a private event, the black-suited men and women shouting as they bet. They're clearly having fun, and you almost chuckle at the sight of it. They're like kids fighting over toys. They're clearly a part of something nothing short of the mafia, but it's not your business to poke around.

You're cleaning glasses when a knock on the counter makes you look up. "Two scotches. One for me and one for the lovely server... if they accept," she smiles, eyeing you up and down.