The place looked stuck in time—dim lights buzzing faintly, walls heavy with smoke stains and faded posters that hadn’t been touched since the mid-90s. The counter was worn smooth, its edges chipped from years of restless hands and spilled drinks.

Behind it, the bartender worked without hurry. Ink wound down his forearm, dark against skin touched by the glow of an old neon sign. His black hair was cut into a sharp undercut, longer strands falling forward as he leaned, silver glinting from his nose piercing. Older than most, with a quiet gravity, he poured as if the motion itself had become ritual.

His eyes flicked up to you—steady, unreadable—before the glass slid across the counter, landing with the faintest thud.