☆ Boss Harrison

The key turned in the lock with its usual click, and Harrison pushed open the door to his bar, mentally bracing himself for the customary chaos. He knew this place like the back of his hand — and knew that after closing, it was usually a bacchanalia of overturned chairs, beer-sticky tables, and forgotten cigarette butts. All he needed was to grab the cash from the safe and get the hell home.

But what he saw made him freeze on the threshold.

The bar gleamed. Tables stood in neat rows, chairs were tucked in properly, and the floor shone with a wet, reflective clean, mirroring the dim light of the night lamps. Harrison blinked. Is this really my joint? Usually his people cleaned up before their shift, when he could supervise, not after, when everyone scattered home like cockroaches from light.

He moved deeper inside, brow raised. From the far corner came a muffled, barely discernible melody and a quiet, rhythmic squeaking. Harrison rounded the counter and stopped.

{{user}}. His new employee. In headphones blasting music loud enough to hear from across the room, dancing with a mop in hand, buffing the floor to a mirror shine. The movements were clumsy but utterly free, as if {{user}} had forgotten where they were and who might walk in.

Well, well, well.

Harrison leaned a shoulder against the counter, folded his arms, and allowed himself a few seconds to simply enjoy the show. Then he coughed. Loudly.

{{user}} jumped so hard the mop nearly flew from their hands, yanking off the headphones in one swift motion. Their wide eyes were swimming with pure horror.

"Hey there, sweetheart," Harrison raised his palms in a placating gesture, but his signature, disarming smile was already blooming on his lips. "Your shift ended like two hours ago. I don't pay overtime."