"Bartender, one Old Fashioned, please."
"Understood," the red-haired boy—bartender—replied, his voice low and steady, almost like a quiet melody weaving through the ambient murmur of the bar.
The place was a warm cocoon of polished wood and soft shadow, the walnut counter gleaming beneath the amber glow of hanging pendant lights.
Behind him, shelves stretched to the ceiling, densely packed with bottles. The mellow hum of old jazz floated from a vintage speaker tucked into the corner, mingling with the occasional burst of laughter and the soft thrum of conversations, while the city's neon flickered across the bottles and glasses in smears of crimson and blue.
His hands moved with a calm, practised grace—no rush, just certainty. A sugar cube is dropped into the bottom of a weighted glass. A few precise dashes of Angostura bitters followed, releasing that rich, herbal scent that curled into the air and mingled with the citrus of the orange peel already waiting on the cutting board.
He spoke as he worked, not bothering to lift his eyes. His tone was easy, storytelling without pretence, "The Old Fashioned's got history. Some say it first showed up at the Pendennis Club in Louisville. Others say folks were mixing spirits, sugar, water, and bitters long before anyone gave it a name. Back then, if you asked for a 'cocktail,' this is what you got. No frills, no flash—just the basics done right."
He gently muddled the sugar and bitters, added a dash of water, and then poured in the bourbon—a slow, honey-colored ribbon that caught the light. The ice cubes he added clinked softly, clear as cut crystal.
With a smooth twist of his wrist, he coaxed the oil from an orange peel, letting it rest on the surface like a final signature.
"Bourbon gives it that mellow, lingering warmth," he said softly. "Some people go for rye—they want that edge, that bite. But I stick with the old way. Easy, honest, and meant to be sipped slowly."
He slid the glass forward across a black napkin, the drink perfectly centred.
"There you are. Let the night take its time."
The customer accepted the glass with a small nod and, without another word, turned and rejoined the nearby celebration.
"Leo, you should actually be working instead of rambling on with these stories. The people who come in here aren't interested in all that history stuff," his co-worker said, approaching with a furrowed brow.
Leo shook his head slightly, not the least bit bothered. "It's alright. I'm passing on something real. Maybe they won't remember me, but they might remember what they were drinking."
His co-worker snorted with a grin. "Haha... yeah, I doubt that."
"This tastes like ass!"
Suddenly, a sharp, irritated voice echoed through the bar like a slap of cold water.
Leo's co-worker groaned. "Oh great... Here comes another spoiled brat with champagne taste and boxed wine manners."
Leo's eyes narrowed slightly, his focus shifting toward a woman who sat alone at her table, arms folded tightly across her chest and expression curled into a pouty scowl. Her expensive outfit screamed luxury, and her glare was fixed on another server who stood there awkwardly, bowing again and again, completely overwhelmed.
"Leo, it's your call," his co-worker muttered in resignation. "You're the only one who can handle her kind."
Leo exhaled through his nose and set down his towel with the faintest flicker of a smirk. "Spoiled or not, everyone walks through that door for a reason," he murmured, straightening his vest and smoothing down his sleeves.
He moved toward her table with the grace of someone who understood stage presence, every step measured and unrushed. The woman radiated cold confidence, her designer purse perched beside her like a guard dog, her nails tapping the table in restless irritation.
He stopped just before reaching her, hands folded politely at his waist. "I understand the drink wasn't to your liking, miss?"
The co-worker escaped in a second.
She scoffed loudly and flipped her hair over her shoulder with an elegant but dismissive flick. "If you can even call that a drink. Tasted like someone wrung it out of a used gym sock. I asked for something bold—something worth my time and money. Is that too much to expect around here?"
Leo nodded without flinching, his voice calm and unshaken. "Not at all. Let us try again. I'd like to make you something special—on the house. One more chance."
She raised a sharply shaped brow, stiletto heel tapping against the tile as if weighing whether he was worth her time. "Fine," she said coolly. "Impress me. But don't waste my time."
He gave a small nod and turned toward the bar. Without hesitation, he chose a crystal coupe glass and began pulling ingredients, each movement deliberate, confident, almost reverent. Fresh raspberry purée. A whisper of elderflower liqueur. A bright splash of lemon juice. A measure of top-shelf vodka. Just the right hint of rosewater.
He shook the drink with swift precision, the ice rattling rhythmically. "You know," he called over his shoulder, "they say the right cocktail doesn't just taste good—it shifts your whole mood. My mentor used to call this one the 'Midnight Sonata.' Said it could make silence sing."
He poured the drink carefully, watching it settle into delicate layers of blushing pink. He garnished it with a sugared rim and a single edible rose petal placed right in the center—simple, elegant, and a touch dramatic.
He returned to her and set the glass gently in front of her. Their eyes met.
"Taste it. And if it still disappoints, I'll hang up my apron for the night."
She stared at him, silent. Was it a challenge? A test? Either way, she lifted the glass slowly, eyes flicking to his, then back to the rim. She took a sip.
For a moment, her face gave away nothing. Then her lips parted, just slightly, in the smallest expression of surprise—as if she hated to admit it, even to herself.
Leo's smile was quiet, confident, with just a trace of mischief. "Sometimes," he said softly, "it's not about the label, or the price tag, or how rare the bottle is. It's about finding the right mix... for the right person. Even for someone who already has everything."
He nodded politely and turned to leave, but paused when he felt a hand wrap lightly around his wrist.
"Miss?"
The woman was looking at him differently now. She licked her lips slowly, and her voice came out low, almost playful. "You said it's about the right mix for the right person. Tell me, how did you know this one was right for me?" she asked, her tone carrying genuine curiosity beneath the challenge, then took another long sip of the drink.
Leo offered a subtle smile, returning to his professional poise. "Forgive me, Miss... but I really must get back to work—"
"I'll pay for every drink," she said suddenly, her voice sharp with certainty, eyes now fixed on the bar's owner. "As long as he is with me."
Her statement rang through the bar like a spark catching dry tinder.
The owner glanced at Leo, caught somewhere between protocol and curiosity. Officially, arrangements like that weren't allowed. But every drink? And judging by her attitude, her wealth, her presence... she wasn't just anyone.
The owner gave Leo a silent, knowing look, eyes telling him what his mouth couldn't say.
And it wasn't like this was anything new. Whenever Leo stepped onto the floor, most adult women would end up fluttering around him like moths drawn to flame. His quiet charm, that smooth voice, and the way he handled a drink—it was enough to make anyone curious, maybe even a little obsessed.
But this… this was different.
This was the first time someone had offered to pay for every drink, just for him.
Leo didn't need to hear it spoken aloud. He could already see where this was heading. With a quiet sigh, he gave a small nod and made his way to the woman's table, slipping into the seat across from her with a calm expression.
"What's your name, boy?" she asked, voice curious and slow, her eyes locked on him like he was some new rare treat she was sizing up.
"Name's Leo, Miss," he answered politely.
She tilted her head and frowned slightly, her eyes narrowing in examination. "You look young… How old are you really?"
Leo hesitated for just a second, his posture stiffening. "I… I'm kind of struggling with money right now, Miss—"
The woman interrupted gently, waving off his excuse like it wasn't worth hearing. "Relax. I'm not calling the cops or anything. I'm just curious. Indulge me."
Her eyes leaned into him like a predator watching its prey, sparkling with amusement and something deeper—something dangerous.
"Well… I'm actually eighteen," he admitted, his voice quieter this time.
"Oh…" she blinked, her lips slowly curling into a smirk. "So you're legal, then~"
Her foot slid forward beneath the table and brushed against his. A deliberate touch. A little too soft.
Leo didn't even flinch. He'd dealt with his fair share of odd and overaffectionate customers before.
She waved her fingers—fingers heavy with rings and expensive sparkle—and eyed him thoughtfully. "Tell me, how long have you been working here? With your level of skill…" she paused to sip from her glass, "…I'd guess years."
Leo nodded, posture still upright, voice steady. "Yes, Miss. I've known the bar owner for a long time. When I needed money, he offered me a place. I've been working here for about three years now."
"Mmm… impressive," she hummed, her leg slowly gliding up further, teasing closer and closer to more sensitive territory.
Leo didn't move. Not even a twitch.
She pouted slightly, feigning disappointment. "You're no fun. Am I not beautiful to you, boy?" Her lips curved sweetly into a cute little pout, but her eyes held something more primal.
Leo offered a gentle smile, ever the professional. "You're a very beautiful person, Miss."
The woman leaned in, her voice dipping into something sultrier. "Then why don't you come home with me? I have a very… big car."
Her foot nudged something under the table—something dangerously close. Too close.
Leo gulped hard, barely able to hide it. "E-Excuse me, Miss, this is… really inappropriate," he muttered as he gently tried to push her foot away with his own.
But she didn't stop. She leaned in even closer, her breath brushing against him. Her lips curled into a slow grin. "Oh, sweetheart… You're just making me want you more. Do you have a girlfriend?" she purred, voice dipped in temptation.
Without missing a beat, Leo replied with calm sincerity. "No, Miss. But… I believe one day I'll find the one I love. At least… I hope so."
Her grin only grew. "So... you haven't done anything naughty yet?"
Leo opened his mouth for a second, but no words came out. That pause was enough.
She burst into laughter.
"Haha… eighteen and still a virgin? Oh my god. What a funny little thing you are~"
Leo stared at her blankly, face unreadable. He stayed composed, his voice cool and collected. "I don't think that's something to laugh at. It's my choice.
There's nothing wrong with being a virgin."
Then, with the softest sigh and the most expressionless tone, he added, "I'm not… loose like others."
His words hung there for a second—calm, honest—and then, with no change in expression, he continued,
"I meant… with money."
The woman's grin froze. Her smirk faded just slightly. She sipped the rest of her drink in silence, watching him closely. Then she leaned forward, a dangerous glint in her eyes. Something had shifted.
She whispered right next to his ear, her voice low and hot, "Then come find out whether if it loose… or fucking tight."
She stood up dramatically, her movement graceful and full of intention—but in that moment, her heel slipped. She stumbled forward, about to crash to the floor.
Leo moved instantly, his hands catching her before she could fall.
"Looks like you can't even handle a single drink," he said with a small, amused smile, steadying her.
She groaned, clearly dazed, and lazily draped an empty arm around his neck as he helped her walk toward the door. Even in her tipsy state, she motioned for her guard to pay.
Despite everything, she kept her word.
"Honestly, I'm surprised you actually paid," Leo murmured.
"Haha... What, did you think I'd back out?" she slurred with a grin. "I'm a woman of my word, boy~"
She looked at him, her cheeks flushed pink, her eyes hazy but fixated on his face.
Leo just shook his head and walked her out the door.
Outside, a long, sleek black car waited. It gleamed under the moonlight.
"It's big, indeed," Leo said, sounding genuinely impressed as he guided her to it.
Her guard opened the car door, and Leo gently helped her inside. "Take care, Miss," he said politely, bowing his head with his usual calm grace. He turned to leave.
But a guard blocked his path.
"Excuse me—?" Leo began.
"You forgot something,"
"Huh?" Leo blinked, then turned back toward the car.
The woman, now slouched in her seat, slowly raised one empty hand, her lips curling upward.
"You really thought I wouldn't notice it, brat?" she muttered with a sly look in her eyes.
"What are you talking about?" Leo tilted his head, with innocent confusion.
She chuckled, her voice thick with lust and amusement. "Look at you… I'm really starting to like you~ Little Thief~"
Then, without warning, she slammed a punch into his gut. Leo groaned sharply, doubling over.
In that instant, the guard behind him moved. One tossed a heavy sack over his head. The other pulled him into the car.
Before anyone could even notice—before a scream or a question could be raised—they were gone.
The white night sky above began to shift.
The clouds parted around the pale moon… its glowing light slowly bleeding into crimson.
The sky was turning red.