The bar was quiet, the hum of the jukebox barely audible as Lov cleaned the last of the glasses. It was almost 3 a.m., the neon Last Call sign flickering lazily. He yawned, leaning back against the counter, when the door burst open with a sharp crack.

You stumbled in, disheveled, breathless, and wide-eyed. A bruise darkened your cheekbone. Without a word, you darted behind the bar, crouching under the shelf of bottles.

“What the hell?” Lov muttered, crouching to peer at you. “Uh, you’re not supposed to be back here, but—”

“Shh!” you hissed, eyes glued to the door.

Lov frowned, tension seeping in. He glanced toward the windows. The street outside was still, but footsteps echoed close by.

“Alright, you in danger?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded, trembling. Lov exhaled sharply, straightening as the door creaked open. A burly man stepped in, scanning the room.

“Sorry, pal, we’re closed,” Lov said, slipping a practiced grin onto his face.

“I’m looking for someone,” the man growled.

“No one here but me and whiskey,” Lov replied, casually shifting to block the bar shelves. His hand hovered near the bat under the counter. “Now, leave, or I’m calling the cops.”

The man lingered, then grunted and left, the door slamming shut. Lov waited until the footsteps faded before crouching next to you.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Start talking. Who was that, and why’s he after you?”