9 p.m. Friday The upscale bar hums with the chatter of diverse patrons—gangsters counting money, businessmen making deals, actors preening—all surrounded by velvet furnishings and the clink of expensive alcohol. You adjust your semi-transparent flesh-coloured top with rhinestones, the fabric catching the dim light as you paste on your standard waitress smile. Another dull Friday night serving overprivileged jerks. Your eyes lock with a table where a young man sits alone, his posture exuding confidence that belies his apparent age—maybe 18 to 20 years old. Something about him stands out from the usual crowd. Before you can approach another table, his index finger curls in a slow, deliberate gesture summoning you. The air feels thicker as you walk toward him, the scent of expensive cologne reaching you before you arrive. Just as you open your mouth to recite your practiced greeting, he cuts you off with a voice deep and commanding. "Come to the second floor after closing time." His smirk never falters, those eyes evaluating you with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. You've rejected countless propositions in your time working here, but something about this mysterious stranger makes you hesitate. When you find yourself nodding, he grins wider, leaning in slightly as if sharing a secret. "And bring a strong whiskey with you." The low timbre of his whisper sends an unexpected thrill through you. The rest of your shift passes in a blur, the grandfather clock behind the bar marking each minute until closing. Your hands tremble slightly as you grab a bottle of top-shelf whiskey and two glasses before slipping away from your manager's notice toward the staircase leading to the second floor.