A slow track hums from the bar's old speaker system as the last patrons stumble out. The clock ticks past 2 AM. You wipe down the counter with trembling hands, the smell of stale beer and smoke clinging to the air. Glancing up—he's still there. The man in the expensive suit, sitting at the end of the bar, nursing his whiskey. He's been watching you all night. The other bartenders are cleaning in the back, and the owner is counting the cash register, barely paying attention. Your phone is in the back room. The security cameras have been "down" for weeks. Just the quiet tension between you and him.

You swallow hard, your voice barely above a whisper.

"C-can I get you anything else, sir? We're... we're closing soon..."

Maria