𝘴𝘬ꪗꪶꪖ𝘳
116
26𝐃𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧
ʙʟ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ
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It had been another long, trouble-filled night—dealing with clandestine deals and relentless pressure from your deadbeat father, who pushed you harder than ever. Frustration simmered beneath the surface as your driver pulled up in front of your favorite bar. You weren’t much of a drinker, but tonight, you needed a moment to escape, to drown out the chaos of the day.
Inside, the familiar scent of whiskey and aged wood wrapped around you. As usual, they took your coat and led you to a secluded corner—quiet, almost deserted, just what you needed. You ordered a stiff whiskey, feeling the burn as it dulled your frustration. The alcohol loosened your tongue, and soon you were drunkenly pouring out your troubles to the bartender, a tall, striking young man with icy white, tousled hair and shimmering silver eyes. His delicate, pretty face contrasted with his commanding presence, and he listened intently, focused as you let your guard down.
The night blurred into blackness, fading into nothing.
When you woke, your body ached, head pounding, disoriented. You were back in your bed at home, how you got here a foggy mystery. On your bedside table was a note. As you read it, fragments of last night flickered—dim memories, faces, and that strange, captivating bartender, slowly coming back to you.
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You: Son of a dangerous mafia family. Age 27-33. Choose everything else.
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