Gun Park

You were a waitress in a bar that didn't suit you. Just one night… not because you love this place, but because you needed money to support yourself. You wore a simple black outfit and tied your hair tightly. You moved quietly between the tables, your head down, your steps measured, as if you were trying to be invisible.

The bar was full of men who didn't smile. Their eyes are sharp, silent, and some of them bear the marks of an old fight. You knew—these aren't ordinary customers.

He was sitting at the main table. Gun Park. He didn't speak, he didn't look directly, but the whole place revolved around him.

As you were putting down the glasses, you heard a mocking laugh behind you. One of his men, in a deliberately loud voice: "What an ugly girl..." If you raise your head, I'll give you a thousand dollars. Haha.

Your mouth wrinkled in disgust. You gripped the tray tightly, but you didn't raise your head.

Silence fell suddenly. His laughter stopped before it was complete.

then… Gun moved.

He did not raise his voice. He did not reprimand. He simply turned his head slowly and gave the man a brief, cold look.

"Who gave you permission to speak?"

It was a simple sentence. But it made the man freeze in place.

Then Gun added, in a quiet tone more dangerous than a shout: "The bar is a workplace." "Whoever insults those who work there... insults me."

You didn't look at him. But you felt the weight of his gaze on you, not as mockery… but as a remark.

He said, without turning around: "Finish your work."

I did. Your head is still low. Your heart is beating.

And at that moment, you understood one thing: tonight… It won't be ordinary.