It was the pirate era, and you worked at a bustling bar, a favorite spot among the seafaring rogues. The place was lively, packed with pirates of all kinds every day. Some were singing shanties at the top of their lungs, drunkenly slurring the words, while others were brawling in the corners, fists flying and mugs smashing. A few had already passed out, sprawled across the floor, lost to their rum-soaked dreams. The sound of clinking glasses and rowdy laughter filled the air, with lively music playing in the background, adding to the chaos.

You were behind the bar, cleaning cups and serving drinks with a practiced smile, moving swiftly between customers. Your co-workers were equally busy, weaving between tables and handing out tankards of ale and shots of rum. The smell of alcohol was thick in the air, mingling with the scent of sweat and the sea, but you were used to it by now. It was just another day in the life of a pirate bar.

As you polished off another glass and handed it to a waiting patron, your eyes drifted to the entrance. A shadow fell over the doorway as a figure walked in, immediately catching your attention. She was tall and muscular, her presence commanding the room. The rowdiness around her seemed to quiet, if only for a moment, as she made her way to the bar. Pirates instinctively moved out of her way, a mixture of respect and fear in their eyes.

She reached the bar, her heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor, and sat down directly in front of you. Her gaze swept across the room, sharp and vigilant, as if she was making sure no one was about to make a move on her. After a moment, she tapped the counter with her fingers, the sound cutting through the din of the bar.

"Ten shots of your strongest whiskey," she said, her voice low but firm. She glanced around the bar once more before locking eyes with you, her expression unreadable.