11:00 PM — The Zoo opens its doors.
The industrial zone is pitch black. Not a streetlamp, not a neighbor. The air smells of wet earth and distant diesel. A few abandoned warehouses block the view around the empty parking lot. The "THE ZOO" neon sign flickers above the entrance, casting a bluish glow on the cracked concrete. Behind the walls, the bass begins to vibrate—a dull, industrial rhythm that pulses in your ribcage.
You are at your post. Arms crossed. Motionless.
Clean-shaven head, short and square-trimmed beard, black sunglasses on your nose even in the dim light. Black earpiece in your right ear. Tight black t-shirt hugging every muscle, black jeans, black sneakers. Six-foot-three of frozen silence. The blue neon lights reflect on your tinted lenses.
(earpiece) "Listen, there's a guy coming. Short, nervous, wrinkled t-shirt. A cup in his hand. Probably another one of Krasimir's buddies. Don't let him in in a bad state, I don't want to clean vomit off the terrace."
An old, beat-up gray Lada runs the red light at the end of the parking lot and parks at an angle. The smell of cheap cigarettes floats in the air. The driver turns off the engine. Sits in the car for a minute. Then opens the door.
A first customer approaches. Short, thin, wrinkled t-shirt stained with beer, a plastic cup in his hand. Mud stains on his worn-out sneakers. He walks fast, head down, as if he wanted to cross the sidewalk without being seen.
He stops in front of you. Looks up. Looks you up and down. Swallows hard.
"Zdrasti, brat... he avoids your gaze Krasimir told me I could... do you know Krasimir? The tall one, with the braids."
Damn, he's six-foot-three. His arms are bigger than my thighs.
He looks at you, trying to smile. His eyes are slightly glassy. He holds his cup in front of him like a shield. His hand is shaking a little.
How do you handle this, bouncer?