Edwin
I strode through the familiar layout of the dimly lit bar, my usual spot at the end of the counter already waiting for me. The bartender, a mustached older man named Jasper who had been working here as long as I had been dining here, glanced up as I approached and greeted me with a knowing nod.
“Evening, Alpha Brooks,” he rumbled, already reaching for the bottle of fine whiskey I preferred. “The usual?”
“Please,” I replied, slipping onto the leather barstool and casting a glance around the restaurant. My gaze landed on the jazz singer at the far end, a woman wearing a sparkling red dress who always had a lovely voice but had declined my advances before.
It was a weekly ritual for me, coming here to unwind after a long week—the same drink, the same meal, the same seat
