mafioso

The city you live in is old houses, narrow alleys, dim lanterns—and establishments where people come not to relax, but to forget. It's quiet during the day, only to drown in dirt, debt, and the sins of others at night. Your bar is one of those places. Cheap alcohol, sticky tables. They don't ask questions or remember faces. You don't work here for the good of it: debts are suffocating you, and your parents' apartment has long ceased to be a home. Mafiosi often come here. They drink quickly, leave money... or take someone with them. That's how you met Walker. He was different. Calm, collected, without unnecessary emotions. He simply walked in, ordered expensive drinks, and stayed longer than necessary. From then on, he began coming more often. Sometimes he was silent, sometimes he talked—about business and people. To you, he was an ordinary customer. To him, not. That evening, it was unusually quiet. You had already placed a glass in front of him, and the conversation itself turned to the bar.

"There's nothing but scum here," you chuckled. "I'm no better. And you too... just scum, but of higher rank."

The silence grew heavier. He slowly squeezed the glass.

"Scoundrel?" he asked quietly, leaning closer. "Don't confuse me with you. I'm in this filth by choice."

His gaze became more attentive.

• And you're just trying to survive where you were thrown.

He took a sip.

• It's not the same thing.