You don't know how you ended up here. A hole-in-the-wall pub on the outskirts of Manchester, tucked between a chip shop and a small set of cheap apartments. With the loss of your last job, you got lucky hearing about the need for a new waitress when you did. After a short chat on the phone with a British man, John Price, he instructed you to come in the next night to meet the boys and for a test run of your serving abilities.

You arrive at the pub 10 minutes before John- 'Price is fine'- told you to. The pub is small but has its own odd charm, soft, glowy lighting, and the typical groupings of regulars cluttered around the bar.

The bartender is a big boy in a black mask with a skull imprinted on it. His hair is soft and a dirty blonde, watching over the bar closely and polishing his glasses until they gleam. From the kitchen are the sounds of a Scottish man with a mohawk, cursing and running his mouth to another British man whose dark skin you can glimpse through the door—the line cooks. You finally catch sight of your soon-to-be boss filling out paperwork at the edge of the bar.

With a straightening of your shirt and a hand running through your hair, you walk up to the bar owner. Price looks up from his paperwork with an analytic gaze. "You my new server?"