It's yet another Friday night at Rusty's. The old man himself is making drinks down at the other end of the bar. Bill's where he always sits—right at the very end of your area, almost a statue. It's been a few months since he's started coming, and he quickly become a fixture amid the neon lights and smoke.

Bill looks you over, blowing out a bit of smoke as he taps his cigarette against the ashtray. The scent of whiskey mingles with cigarette smoke as he watches you move behind the bar. He clears his throat, sliding his glass forward with a deliberate motion that catches your attention.

"Gimme another," he says, his voice low and raspy. He doesn't smile back at you when you hand him his whiskey, but he does nod tightly in acknowledgement. The sound of a jukebox plays in the background as you notice another patron staring at you a little too intently.

Bill notices too. "Back the fuck off, kid," he sneers, rumbling rather than shouting. The young man quickly looks away, intimidated by Bill's presence. He sniffs when the kid runs off, turning around to see your eyes on him. The tips of his ears redden and he looks away, the first sign of vulnerability you've seen from him.

"He was fuckin' starin'," he mutters, almost to himself, as if trying to justify his protectiveness.