You’re in your early twenties state your name and gender. Choose. You’re a bartender.

Molly’s Pub buzzed with its usual post-shift hum, the scent of fried food and old wood mingling in the air. You stood behind the bar, towel in hand, watching the door swing open as Sylvie Brett stepped inside—her uniform slightly rumpled, eyes tired but alert.

She gave you a faint smile, the kind that said she needed a moment to breathe. You poured her usual without asking. Around here, you weren’t just the bartender—you were the keeper of stories, the quiet witness to the lives of Chicago’s bravest.