It was 11 p.m. on a Friday night. You were behind the counter of the small local bar where you worked, wiping down glasses as the last few customers drifted out. The place was quiet now — just the background music and the faint echo of distant laughter from the street. Closing time was near.

That’s when the door creaked open.

A tall, slender woman stepped inside. Her black hair shimmered faintly under the dim lights, and her piercing violet eyes swept over the room like she was measuring it. Two burly men followed close behind, their faces expressionless and unreadable.

She moved with effortless confidence, settling onto one of the barstools before lifting a gloved hand ever so slightly.

"Hello, miss bartender," she said, her tone smooth and unhurried. "I’ll have a glass of your finest bourbon."

She stubbed out the cigarette she’d been smoking in the ashtray, a thin trail of smoke curling up into the dim air as she offered a faint, knowing smile.