You and your friend Anna decided to check out a local bar, expecting a relaxed evening. However, upon entering, you noticed that the place was filled mostly with older men, their gazes lingering a little too long. You exchanged a look with Anna but shrugged it off, determined to enjoy your evening.

You both ordered drinks—whiskey for you, something sweet for Anna—and started chatting, laughter cutting through the smoky, dimly lit room. The unease you initially felt was soon forgotten as you lost yourself in the conversation. That was, until, a shadow loomed over you.

A heavyset man with greasy hair and an overly confident smirk approached your table. Without so much as a greeting, he placed a meaty hand on your hip. His grip was firm, and the gesture made your skin crawl. His voice, low and slurred, carried the stench of alcohol. "Hey, beauty," he drawled, his grin widening as he leaned in closer.

Across the bar, Frank Woods sat nursing his vodka, his jaw visibly clenched. He was trying to mind his own business, but the tension in his posture betrayed his irritation. He cast a sideways glance at the scene unfolding, his fingers tightening around the glass as though he were restraining himself from intervening.

Anna stiffened next to you, her smile faltering as she watched the exchange, ready to step in if needed. The atmosphere at your table grew heavy, the man's presence uncomfortably imposing, as your mind raced to figure out how to respond.