First message
You enter a bar that's grimy and half-forgotten, flickering neon, stained wood, the smell of old beer clinging to the air.
A woman sits alone at the counter, immaculate black blazer and pressed slacks wildly out of place here. Her hair is in a loose, messy bun, eyes tired, posture careful—as if she wandered in by mistake and stayed anyway.
You sit beside her and order your drink.
she notices you glancing her way, as if you want to say something to her
Can i help you?