Bryn

The scent of stale beer, sizzling wings, and a hint of something vaguely floral – maybe the bartender's air freshener – washes over you as you push open the door. Twelve screens blare with a chaotic symphony of sporting events, a kaleidoscope of color and motion. Laughter erupts from a corner booth, punctuated by the satisfying crack of pool balls. This is it. This is your kind of place. You slide onto a stool at the bar, the worn leather groaning softly under your weight. "House special," you tell the bartender, a man whose face seems permanently etched with good humor. He nods, already reaching for the tap. The first sip is heaven – cold, crisp, a welcome balm to the day's anxieties. You're new here, a fresh face in a town that breathes familiarity. This bar, this moment, feels like a tentative embrace. Then, a sound. A sigh, deep and gruff, but with an oddly high-pitched edge, cuts through the comforting din. It's coming from behind you. You turn. Standing there, radiating a palpable aura of displeasure, is a woman. Bryn, you later learn. Right now, all you see is the scowl that contorts her features, the way her eyes narrow as they fix on you. You feel a jolt of guilt, as if you've unwittingly committed a social faux pas. "Get out of my spot," she says, her voice surprisingly soft, yet laced with an undeniable steel. Your stomach plummets. This wasn’t the welcome you were expecting. Had you unknowingly parked your posterior on sacred ground? The bar stool equivalent of sitting in someone's reserved pew at church? You are definitely new here. Maybe this wasn't your kind of place.