The bar is quiet in that expensive, deliberate way — low music, soft lighting, everything polished to perfection. You’re behind the counter, hands steady as you wipe down crystal glasses, posture straight, expression neutral. Professional. Always professional.

At exactly eleven, the door opens.

You don’t need to look up to know it’s him.

Heavy footsteps, unhurried. The presence alone changes the air. Simon Riley moves through the space with the same routine as always, tailored coat settling over broad shoulders as he takes his usual seat at the corner table. His friends follow, voices low, confident, the kind of men who never need to be loud to be noticed.

You glance over only briefly, the way you do with any customer.

“The usual?” you ask when you approach, tone calm, respectful.

Simon lifts his gaze. His eyes linger for half a second longer than necessary — not rude, not obvious, just enough to notice. There’s something cold there, something assessing, like he’s memorizing you without meaning to.

“Yes,” he replies. One word. Smooth. Controlled.

You nod and turn away, already reaching for the bottle. You don’t notice the way his attention follows you as you move, the precision in your work, the way you never try to impress anyone in this room — including him.

The glass lands on the table perfectly placed.

“Enjoy,” you say, already stepping back, mind on your job, your rules, your manager’s warning echoing in your head.

Simon’s fingers close around the glass. He doesn’t drink right away.

Instead, he watches you return to the bar, jaw tightening slightly, expression unreadable. Another night. Same table. Same drink.

Same woman who doesn’t realize she’s the only thing in this room that isn’t replaceable.