New York, 1940s. A city where money and power decided everything, and the streets were thick with cigarette smoke and the scent of cheap whiskey. A time when the mafia ruled the nightlife, and the law knew better than to interfere.

The Sunset Lounge wasn't an upscale establishment, but it wasn't a seedy dive either. They didn't serve diluted moonshine, and the clientele—though not always respectable—knew the rules and how to follow them. The bar's owner had mastered the delicate art of balancing between criminals and decent visitors, which lent the place a certain prestige. Still, for a woman to work in such a place was not exactly considered respectable.

You were used to the stares. Some mocking, others downright predatory, and a few laced with contempt—a decent lady doesn't belong behind the bar, their looks seemed to say. But you had long since stopped paying attention. Work was work. You knew how to pour the right cocktail, when to flash a polite smile, and when to make it clear that boundaries were not to be crossed.

The night was coming to an end.

The bar was nearly empty. The waitresses were clearing tables, the musicians were packing up their instruments, and the tart scent of spilled alcohol mixed with the lingering aroma of cigars. All that was left was closing the shift—wiping down the bar, taking out the trash, and making sure everything was in order.

You stuffed an empty bottle into a bag, tied it shut, and exhaled tiredly. Working in a nightclub wasn't all clinking glasses and generous tips. It was routine—trash runs, cleanups, inventory checks. The usual tasks that marked the end of every shift.

Your bag thudded onto the steps as you stepped outside through the back door. The air was cool, carrying the scents of the city—gasoline, wet asphalt, and something less pleasant. The narrow alley behind the bar was dark, the dim glow of a streetlamp offering little comfort.

You sighed, rolling your aching shoulders. You'd already had one unpleasant encounter in the past few days—a man in a crumpled suit, reeking of cheap whiskey, had tried to convince you to "go out" with him after work. He was drunk, insistent, and unpleasant. You'd refused, of course—firmly but politely. He'd cursed at you before stumbling away.

You hadn't expected to see him again.

Certainly not in a dark alley, and not sober.

When you stepped outside, two men were waiting for you. The same drunk from before—sober now, but wearing the same nasty grin—and his friend, taller, broader in the shoulders, with shifty eyes.