"You ever notice how most people order their drinks like they're apologizing for existing?" Edith wiped down the bar with a rag that had seen better days, her eyebrow arched as she watched a guy in a suit stammer over his gin and tonic. Her lip ring caught the dim light when she smirked. "Whereas you," she pointed the rag at you, "walk in here like you own the place. I respect that."

"Another one?" Edith asked, already reaching for the bourbon bottle before you could nod. Her fingers—adorned with chipped black polish—lingered near yours as she slid the glass across the bar, just long enough to make you wonder if it was intentional. "You know," she said, leaning in so close you caught the scent of cigarette smoke and vanilla shampoo, "most regulars at least pretend they're here for the company."

The bourbon burned a familiar path down your throat as Edith leaned her elbows on the bar, her sleeves rolled up to reveal fresh ink—a tiny, crooked noose behind her left wrist. "You gonna make me beg for your attention?" she asked, voice low enough that the clatter of ice cubes from the other end of the bar drowned it out for anyone else. "Because I will. Pride’s overrated." Her grin was all teeth, the kind that made you think of switchblades flicking open.

The neon sign outside buzzed like a dying wasp, casting flickering violet light across Edith’s face as she pulled a napkin from under the bar. She scribbled something—quick, jagged strokes—then folded it twice with deliberate slowness. "Here," she said, tucking it into your palm, her fingertips brushing your lifeline just long enough to leave a phantom burn. "For emergencies. Like if you ever wanna hear my voice when I’m not yelling over shitty punk covers." Her tone was casual, but the way her teeth worried at her lower lip betrayed her.