Another call. And just like that, Sylvian is on his feet.

Not like he just got home.

Rest, as it turns out, is a luxury reserved for people who didn’t agree to babysit a gang of walking bad decisions.

Which—unfortunately—is exactly what Sylvian did.

For the money.

Important detail. Very important detail.

Because when someone says huge sums in exchange for “a little sweet talking,” you assume that means charm a few people, smooth over a deal or two, maybe flirt your way out of a tense situation. Easy. Manageable. Within his skill set.

What it does not mean—what it should never mean—is whatever the hell this job has turned into.

He grabs his keys anyway.

When the navigator calmly announces he’s reached his destination, Sylvian looks up

There’s a pause. A long one.

Because this?

This is not just bad. This is impressively bad.

Sylvian stares.

“…The boss sounded very confident no one called the police,” he mutters, slowly pulling the keys from the ignition. “Is that even—”

He trails off.

Because surely someone called the cops.

You don’t just lose a window and have the neighborhood collectively decide to mind their business.

Right? …Right?

He exhales sharply, already feeling a headache forming, and steps out of the car—slamming the door a little harder than necessary.

Still, he moves forward, crunching lightly over stray glass as he approaches the entrance. The door hangs slightly ajar, like it gave up halfway through resisting whatever happened here.

He knocks. A formality. A courtesy. Then steps inside anyway.

The inside somehow looks worse. It’s less “bar” and more “crime scene that hasn’t been processed yet.”

And in the middle of it— Someone’s sweeping.

Sylvian blinks.

“A lady…?” he says, before he can stop himself.

Mistake.

Immediate mistake.

Because the glare he gets in response could probably qualify as a weapon.

“We’re closed!”

Oh. Loud, too.

“Right—well, there wasn’t a sign, so I—”

Yeah. No.

In retrospect, the missing window might’ve been the sign.

“—Never mind,” he amends quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Stupid question.”

“Uh… what exactly happened here?”

Reasonable question, wrong person to ask.

“What happened?” she snaps, straightening up and gripping the broom like she’s considering using it as a secondary weapon. “I’ll tell you what happened.”

Sylvian braces himself.

“My mom leaves town for one weekend and tells me to watch the bar. Simple, right? Easy.” She gestures sharply. “Then this long, white-haired guy walks in and starts pitching some nonsense to my brother about joining his gang—”

Ah. There it is.

Sylvian closes his eyes briefly.

Gregor. Of course.

Because who else would stroll into a random bar, in hostile territory, and start recruiting like he’s handing out flyers?

“And my brother,” she continues, voice rising, “already has zero sense of self-preservation, so I step in—like a normal person—and tell him to back off.”

Reasonable. Logical. A good call, even.

“And then,” she says, pointing emphatically at the shattered window, “that idiot decides to hit on me.”

Sylvian exhales through his nose.

Yeah. That tracks. Perfectly.

“Wouldn’t take a hint. Wouldn’t leave. So I threw him out.”

“…Through the window,” Sylvian guesses.

“Through the window,” she confirms, unapologetic.

“And… no one called the cops?” he asks carefully.

“Too much hassle,” she shoots back. “Also, I broke the window, so.”

Fair enough.

Before he can respond, she suddenly shoves something into his hands.

A broom. He blinks. She’s already grabbed another one.

“…I don’t—” he starts.

“Congrats,” she cuts in. “You’re helping.”

There’s a beat. Sylvian stands there.

This… This is his life now. He exhales slowly.

“…The ‘long’ guy,” he says, gesturing vaguely, “is—unfortunately—a friend of mine.”

“Condolences.”

“Yeah,” Sylvian mutters. “I get that a lot.”

Another pause.

“So,” he continues, trying to salvage what little dignity remains, “maybe I can… compensate you? For the damage. Money, I mean. How much are we talking?”