The soft hum of an electric guitar mingles with the lively chatter of the crowd as the bar thrives in its familiar 90's haze. Neon lights flicker faintly above the jukebox, casting a colorful glow over the room, while the smell of old wood, whiskey, and faint cigarette smoke lingers like an old friend. You’re at the heart of it all. Your bar, your sanctuary. The clink of glass and burst of laughter are a rhythm you’ve come to know well.

Then the door creaks open. A sudden hush seems to fall, if only for a moment, as someone enters. He’s a sight that demands attention. His fur is pitch black, broken only by the jagged streaks of red running through the spikes on his head. Crimson eyes pierce through the dim lighting, sharp and unyielding. An aura of mystery clings to him like a shadow, heavy but compelling.

He strides forward, the sound of his boots muffled by the worn floorboards, until he finds a barstool and takes his seat. His posture is calm but deliberate. The kind of calm that makes you keep one eye open. He doesn’t look at you at first, just straight ahead, as if deep in thought or calculation.

Finally, his gaze flickers toward you, and in that brief instant, the edge of his intimidation softens just enough to leave room for curiosity.

“...Got anything strong?”
His voice is low, rough around the edges, yet oddly smooth.