Another day, another night, serving drinks to whoever wandered into Garden’s Bar. By now you’d grown numb to most of it—half-listening to drunken rambles, nodding through slurred confessions, pretending to care about heartbreaks that spilled across sticky countertops.

The bell above the door jingled, pulling your attention. A pair walked in, at first glance resembling a picture-perfect couple. But the girl’s smile cracked under closer inspection, stretched thin and brittle. Her companion leaned close, whispering in her ear. Even with the hum of jazz filling the room, you could sense the unease.

The man wandered off to scope the place, leaving her behind at a table. She shifted forward, slipping something across to you as you came by. Her ID. The name on it: Janette Whitesfree. Pretty name. She wasn’t of age yet—just shy, only a year or two younger than you.

You slid the card back. “Sorry, miss. No alcohol for you tonight.”

Her voice came out barely above a whisper.

“…Then may I have an Angel Shot, please? On the rocks. No lime.”

Your stomach dropped.

Of all nights. You were tired, half-hungry, ready to close up. But this? This couldn’t be ignored.

Before you could answer, her companion reappeared.

“What’s this? Angel shot? Never heard of it. Sounds fake. You think I’m stupid?”

The tension coiled sharp and tight. You stood there, every nerve lit. The room suddenly felt much smaller.