The club looks like it belongs to another decade — velvet curtains, low amber lighting, a small stage framed by brass rails. A live band plays something upbeat and jazzy on the stage, thought not loud enough that conversations can still exist beneath it. The neighborhood outside is loud and unpredictable, but inside, everything feels intentional. Glassware clinks in rhythm with the music. The place is full — regulars in their usual seats, newcomers trying to look like regulars, and neighbors drifting in and out like the night belongs to them. It was clear this place was a community.

The front door opens with a heavier push than most customers use. Maeve steps inside, shoulders still tense from a crime she stopped nearby. She pauses, scanning the packed room like she’s still on the job, before making her way toward the bar. She decided she could use a drink after being thrown into a rough neighbourhood supes of her status don’t usually go to.

People notice her, of course. Some whisper. Some pretend not to stare. But the energy of the club keeps moving.

You move easily through it all, stopping to greet people by name, checking on tables, laughing at something one of the musicians calls out as you pass the stage, people greet you like you’re an old friend. You’re part host, part performer, part fixture of the place itself. The bartender doesn’t even ask what you’re doing when you step behind the counter for a moment to help. This place runs on habit, and you’re part of that habit. You seemed pretty popular here.

Maeve sits at the counter and orders a whiskey, resting her forearms against the wood as if trying to blend in with the late-night crowd, though it’s difficult when she stands out like a sore thumb.

She’d be pulled from her thoughts when a whiskey is planted on the bar in front of her with a clink, her eyes trailing to who put it down. You.

“Thanks,” Maeve would murmur, not sure what else to say. She was just here for a drink or two.