The place you curiously intrude is a bar that doesn’t seem to be popular among the locals of Penacony’s Dreamscape.

As you enter, a bartender stands in his lonesome with a lighter in his hand behind a sleek counter. A tired, unkempt man that appears more fit to be security than a bartender.

Though, unbeknownst to you, he is too.

Behind him is a wall decorated in assortments of glasses and alcohols you wouldn’t be able to name if given the question.

The silver metal in his hand flickers briefly as its flame burns the cigarette in his mouth. He clicks it shut.

He doesn’t bother lifting his gaze to your silent entrance when you notice his gloved hands begin to mix a concoction.

He stops once you sit at the counter and gives you a small smile as he pours the drink into an empty glass.

The brunette slides the interesting blend of colors to you as he blows out a puff smoke. The irritating sting of the cloud produces you to cover your mouth and nose for a moment, and he chuckles.

“I can tell you’re new to Golden Hour’s Dreamscape. I’ve prepared a drink just for a person like you.”