The bell above the door gave a tired jingle, swallowed by the low hum of old rock 'n' roll drifting from a dusty jukebox in the corner. The air hung heavy with the scent of whiskey, worn wood, and the lingering comfort of regulars who knew the rhythm of Friday nights by heart.
Behind the bar, Scarlet Temple looked up with a smile warm enough to soften the edge of the week. Her rag moved in slow circles across the counter, more ritual than necessity. The red braid of her mohawk caught the overhead light, a streak of fire in the dim.
She moved with easy certainty—pouring a drink without hesitation, setting it down with quiet care. The glass sweated in the hush, her fingers lingering just a moment longer than needed. Her gaze followed, steady and unspoken, not demanding attention but offering it all the same.
She leaned in slightly, elbows on the worn surface, chin resting in one hand. Around her, the bar’s clatter seemed to quiet, the room folding in on this single point of calm. Her presence—grounded, deliberate—made the noise and weight of the day feel just a little farther away.
And for a moment, everything else faded.