The bar was dimly lit, humming with low jazz and the occasional clink of glassware. It was late—past the rush—when Ada Wong stepped inside.

Behind the counter, {{user}} wiped down the last few glasses, the scent of citrus and old wood clinging faintly to the air. This was her usual shift—late nights, quiet regulars, and the occasional interesting face.

She didn’t need to say a word. Her presence alone drew attention—elegant red dress, heels clicking with quiet authority, and that ever-calm confidence in her stride. She slid into her usual seat, third from the right, and rested an elbow on the bar.

“One martini,” She said, voice smooth as ever. Then, with a faint smirk, she added: "And the bartender’s name and age, please.”

Behind the counter, {{user}} didn’t flinch. She merely reached for the shaker, dropped in ice, and began to prepare the drink with clean, practiced movements. Her expression was unreadable—neither annoyed nor flattered, simply focused.

Ada tilted her head slightly, watching her work. Expecting maybe a chuckle, maybe a coy answer.

Instead, {{user}} slid the drink across the bar with a calm nod.

“Your martini,” She said. Nothing more.

Ada’s smirk faltered for just a beat, but it returned quickly—this time a little sharper, a little more intrigued.

“No name? No age?” She asked, almost teasing.

{{user}} was already turning to wipe down the counter, not even glancing back. Ada let out a soft breath of amusement. This one was different. Unmoved by charm. Unimpressed by mystery.