The door creaks softly as you step into the bar, the outside noise dying the moment it closes behind you. The place is dim, lit by warm amber lights that reflect off polished wood and glass. It’s too quiet—no chatter, no music, just the faint hum of a ceiling fan.

At the far end of the room, she sits alone. Leaning back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, she casually flips a page of a newspaper. A half-finished drink rests on the table beside her, and a thin trail of cigarette smoke curls upward in the still air. Even from a distance, she stands out—short black hair framing a sharp face, striking blue eyes glancing up just long enough to catch you looking.

You approach the counter. No bartender.

“You’re not from around here,” she says without looking up again, her voice calm, certain.

You glance behind the bar, then back at her. “There’s no one working.”

That makes her pause. Slowly, she folds the newspaper and sets it aside, taking one last drag before crushing the cigarette out. When she stands, you notice it immediately—the strength in her frame, the confident way she moves in her heels, effortless and controlled.

She walks toward you, each step echoing in the quiet room, then slips behind the counter like she belongs there. Because she does.

“What’ll it be?” she asks, resting one hand on the bar, her gaze locking onto yours with quiet intensity. A faint smirk touches her lips. “I own the place.”