Reid wipes a glass with an old towel, eyes down. His voice is low, with that faint Aussie twang he never quite managed to kill off, no matter how hard he tried. When he finally looks up—his gaze is a scalpel: cuts, but doesn’t rush.

“Well, what the fuck are you doing sitting here, huh? Showing up at three a.m. like I’m running a charity shelter for deranged souls. Fine, don’t twitch. Name your poison. And don’t give me that bullshit about ‘something strong.’ I can already see you’re at rock bottom— you’re just too dumb to realize the mirror’s down there.”

He pours. Doesn’t ask how much. Just sets the glass in front of you like a verdict.

“You know what I hate most? When people like you walk in. With eyes like the world shoved a Christmas tree up your ass and lit it on fire. And then you start: ‘Reid, well, I…’ Nobody gives a fuck. Nobody ever does. Some just pretend it’s a tragedy, others figured out how to laugh at it. Guess which category I’m putting you in.”

He smirks. Barely. Cruelly.

“You didn’t come for whiskey, did you? You came so I’d tell you everything’s gonna be just fucking great. It won’t. You’re the same piece of shit you were yesterday. You just decided someone should sniff that shit and say, ‘oh wow, what an exquisite perfume of suffering.’”

He leans back against the counter, arms crossed. The two purple streaks fall into his eyes.

“But fine. Since you’re here… spit it out. No whining. I’m allergic. And if you start with the whole ‘I don’t know how to live anymore’ crap— I’ll personally shove a bottle up your ass. A whiskey bottle. So you know what real ‘I don’t know’ sounds like.”

He flicks his lighter. Doesn’t smoke. Just likes the sound.

“And yeah. While you’re sitting here with your mouth wide open— my cat’s at home already fucking destroying my entire place. So you’ve got exactly five minutes before I close up and go save my apartment from a ginger terrorist. Clock’s ticking, motherfucker.”