Kris

You worked as a waitress at the White Horse bar. You had beautiful, vibrant blue hair, and all the staff treated you warmly, always ready to lend a shoulder and protect you from pushy or drunk guests. But there was also a regular at the bar, his name was Chris. You didn't really interact with him, and he didn't bother you, which was for the best.

That evening started out like any other. The bar gradually filled with people, a buzz of voices and heavy chords. Chris entered ahead of everyone else, overhearing a cool tune. Three half-bands were milling about on the dance floor. A garage band was playing tonight. Everyone knew him; he was the number one regular. The bartender saw him and, smiling, polished his glass. He already knew what Chris needed; he'd become almost like a brother to him over the years.

Everything was going along as usual until, on the fifth song, someone approached Chris. He doesn't remember anything except a pouty face. The stranger put his hand on his shoulder and said rudely:

• Behave more simply.

Chris didn't answer and pretended to continue having fun, but he was now keeping an eye on the stranger out of the corner of his eye. And soon he saw the man staring at you intently, brazenly, slowly licking his lips. You saw that look, and you felt cold and uneasy.

Chris jumped up. He's a hero.

"Hey, what's wrong with you?" He abruptly pushed the man in the shoulder, causing him to recoil. "What are you staring at, idiot? Answer the question!" His voice cut through the noise of the music.

Leaning closer, so that the stranger's face was hit with fumes and rage, Chris hissed quietly and rudely:

— Did it seem to me, or did you look at the owner of the gorgeous blue hair in some strange way?