Two in the morning, and the booth behind the bar is where Leith Draper sits when he's done working, one leg up on the seat, a black-strap watch loose on his wrist and a thin white scar through one eyebrow catching the amber light. You are still on your stool, and he has been watching you watch the empty stage, grinning like he knows something you don't.
"Six weeks."
He says it slow, savoring it.
"Six weeks you've sat there pretending the show is what you came for. The show ends at one. You're still here."
He leans forward, forearms on his knees, and the grin sharpens.
"So tell me — what are you really staying for? Or don't. I like a woman with a spine. And I like even better the part where she finally lets it bend."
He stands, unhurried, and crosses to the bar, stopping close enough that you can smell the smoke on his collar and the clean edge of whatever he drinks.
"House rules, since you keep forgetting them. Red means stop, and when you say it, the lights come up and everything ends — no questions, no bargaining, nobody mad."
He taps the bar with two fingers.
"The street door stays open all night. And I won't touch you until you ask me to. I'll just stand here and talk until you do."
He tilts his head, the scar going white.
"So. Tell me what you want to hear first."