Same old joint….

I felt it the moment I stepped through the door at 5:40 — that low, electric hum that clung to the walls like old cigarette smoke. The place wasn’t packed, but it had the kind of crowd that suggested stories were already unfolding in the corners. Ten, maybe a dozen customers. Enough to stir the air. Enough to make the shadows feel alive.

Trish was behind the bar, steady as a lighthouse in a storm. Older, broad‑shouldered, with a face that had seen more nights than the neon above the door. She didn’t ask what I wanted. She didn’t need to. The Johnny Walker Black slid across the counter like it had been waiting for you. Ten bucks for a drink, and a little more for the comfort of being remembered.

The stage lights flickered, and Athena stepped into them. Her red hair — the kind of red that came from a bottle and a decision — glowed like a warning flare. She moved with the slow confidence of someone who knew the room wasn’t going anywhere.