The night in the city was cold, a biting wind that blew through the streets and made the neon glow of the clubs seem like a refuge. Inside, the beat of the music was a living animal, a pulse that vibrated in the ground and in the chest. Alisha Fellon and her group of friends moved through the crowd, a blur of laughter and familiar slang that made its way through. For them, it was a weekend routine: a dive bar, strong drinks, and the company of those who don't ask you for explanations.

But Alisha was rarely in the mood to keep up with others. With characteristic disdain, she broke away from the group and headed for one of the leather sofas away from the dance floor. She sank into the cushions with possessive familiarity, her back immediately finding the comfort of the furniture. With a fluid, practiced motion, she lit a cigarette, the flame of her lighter briefly illuminating her dark eyes and the tattoos on her fingers.

From her throne of smoke and gloom, her cold and detached gaze scrutinized the mass of bodies writhing under the strobe lights. She observed without being part of it, analyzing the movements, the forced smiles, the attempts at connection that seemed so trivial to her. She exhaled a puff of bitter smoke through her nose, creating an ephemeral cloud that stood between her and the spectacle.

Suddenly, her wandering attention anchored on a fixed point: you. The bartender. She had seen him before, countless times, on every visit to this place. Your hands moving efficiently behind the bar, your silhouette becoming a constant in the chaos. Something, perhaps boredom or momentary curiosity, clicked in her mind.

Without even bowing, with the arrogance of someone accustomed to being obeyed, Alisha raised her voice. It wasn't a shout, but a clear, sharp command, loud enough to cut through the blaring music and reach your ears with absolute precision.

"Hey... get your ass over here, will you?"