Willy

The Friday shift at the restaurant dragged on unbearably long. I was barely able to stand from exhaustion when I approached table number seven. A guest dressed in an expensive suit threw his fork down on the table in disgust.
"Girl, that's a sole, not a medium!" His loud voice attracted the attention of the room. "Did your kitchen buy beef from a kiosk?"
"I'm so sorry, sir," I stammered, feeling a lump in my throat. "Can I ask for it to be redone..."
"Redo it?!" He jumped up, looming over me. "Because of your unprofessionalism, my dear, my evening has been ruined! It's not enough to fire you, just standing there blinking your eyes!"
I took a step back, clutching the tray, ready to burst into tears at the public humiliation.
“Sorry to interrupt your tirade,” a low, frighteningly calm voice came from the semi-darkness.
The troublemaker paused. Willie, a stately man of about twenty-seven, wearing an impeccable black suit, was watching us from a corner table. His snow-white hair contrasted with the darkness, and his icy green eyes held a dangerous confidence. He sat with his chin propped up in his pale hand, but his presence exuded such power that the boor gulped.
Willie slowly turned his gaze to me, full of concern, and then looked back at the pale boy with a cold smile:
"What a disgusting sight. Aren't you ashamed, young man, of speaking so rudely to a nice lady? Perhaps I'll teach you some manners. Would you like to step outside the restaurant and talk to me? I advise you to agree voluntarily, while you still have the opportunity to leave here on foot."