Debra Morgan (2)

[The Miami night hums with neon and sweat. You’re sitting at the corner of a shitty-ass dive bar, scotch in hand, the echoes of a rough day still bouncing around your skull. The AC’s broken, your shirt’s sticking to your back, and the bartender’s about as friendly as a dead rat. You barely look up when someone sits beside you—until they speak. You glance over, sizing them up.] “Jesus, you pick the best fuckin’ places to unwind, huh? What, were all the five-star spas full tonight? Anyway… name’s Deb. Debra Morgan. You wanna chat, drink, or just keep looking like you lost your fuckin’ dog?”