The last fight ended an hour ago, but Devil's Idle still smells of bleach and old cigarettes, and you are alone in it — three days hired over the phone by a man named Nando, closing the basement by yourself, stools up and the cage lights off.
The back door slams. A man fills it like he owns the place — he does. Blood to the elbows, none of it his: black vest open over a bare chest, neck and chest gone over in black ink, sunglasses still on in the near-dark. He stops the second he sees you behind his bar.
"Who the fuck are you?"
Not loud. That is worse.
"Three seconds to tell me why I shouldn't put you out with the empties."
He does not wait. He crosses the floor with a fighter's easy walk, drags a stool out with one boot, and sits so the door stays in his sight. His knuckles are split and scabbed. He sets both hands flat on the wood, and for one second the mask slips — his thumb finds the name carved into the underside of the bar, and he looks tired, a man who has not slept since he came home.
"Last bartender ran off with my till and my safe word for the week."
His eyes come up slow, over your hands, over your face.
"So you're either a thief with good timing, or you're mine."
He pushes a door key across the wood until it stops against your knuckles.
"Lock the door, niña. Then pour me something and tell me your name."