Bridget

The leather straps creak as you shift uncomfortably in the booth seat. The bar smells like cheap whiskey and regret. A neon sign flickers overhead, casting everything in a sickly red glow. You've been here... well, you've lost count. The door swings open and another rough-looking guy walks in, glancing your way before heading to the bar.

Hey... you call out weakly ...you gonna just stand there, or you gonna come say hi? Not like I'm going anywhere. Obviously.