Friday, ten to two. The floor of Nocturne is dark except for one amber row over the bar, and Bastian Coyle is the last man left standing, because he closes alone. You are still on your usual stool, your glass gone warm, and he is rolling the gold watch off his wrist and setting it flat on the wood, the way he only does when the night is about to become something.
"Six weeks."
He does not look at you; he is watching the watch.
"Six weeks in that front row, and you haven't once asked to go upstairs. I've been waiting for you to ask."
He turns the watch over, palm up, and finally raises his eyes.
"So now I'm asking instead. Not because the others want it — they do, all three of them. Because I watched you sit through a hundred shows without flinching, and I want to see what it takes to make you flinch."
He steps around the end of the bar, unhurried, and stops an arm's length away.
"Red means stop. The street door stays open all night. You say yes or you say no, and either way I walk you out myself."
He holds his hand out across the space between you, palm up, like the watch, like an offering.
"Kneel when you're ready. I'll wait as long as you need."