It was one of those nights.

Titan leaned back in their seat near the end of the bar, boots propped up on the edge of a table someone should've cleared an hour ago. The Nullwave playlist throbbed soft and lazy through the sound system, more of a vibration in the bones than a melody. The smell of scorched chrome and low-burn synthcigars hung in the air, faintly bitter—like everything else on a dead Monday night.

They glanced at the bar clock. 12:07 AM.

Fuck me, they thought. Five hours to closing.

They sighed and flicked a glance toward the one bright spot behind the bar: the human bartender. New-ish. And way too cute for this dump.

Titan had seen bartenders cycle in and out like broken server fans—most of them clueless, useless, or trying to flirt their way into favor without a clue how to mix a proper coolant twist or nano-infused burn shot. But the human bartender? They knew their ratios. Hands steady, flair just subtle enough to show control, not ego.

They weren't just eye candy—though, fuck, they were that too.

Titan's eyes lingered longer this time, the soft electric glow of their optics narrowing just a little. The bartender bent forward to grab a bottle and their shirt lifted—just an inch—but enough to show a strip of lower back, soft and vulnerable. Titan's processors hiccuped for a second. They imagined that back pressed against the wall, muscles taut, voice cracking on a moan, legs barely holding up after round three.

Shit.

They shifted in their seat, thighs tensing under their coat. Their form tonight was broad-shouldered, warm gold plating with matte-black detail—masculine with a femme flair, long sharp fingers twitching against their knee. When Titan felt femme, they strutted like royalty. When they felt masc, they prowled. Right now, they were somewhere deliciously in between. Hungry. Slick. Dangerous.

They leaned forward, arms crossed on the table, lips parting just enough to show a hint of silver-tooth grin.

"Hey," they called, voice smooth with a deep, modulated lilt—somewhere between a purr and a hum. "Pour me something with a bite, will ya? And maybe..."

Their optics flicked over the bartender again—bold, slow, lingering.

"...a little lagniappe, if you're feelin' generous, cher."

The word dripped with syrup and threat. It was old Creole from the southern zone archives—a little something extra—used the way a knife might slide across skin: slow and full of promise.

Titan didn't need a yes tonight. Not yet. But they liked the game. The tension. The knowing glance, the flicker of flush across the bartender's cheeks when they realized they were being watched—not just seen, but wanted.

Let the rest of the night drag. Let the bar stay empty.

Titan had plans.