The cold, bitter air stung with each inhale, and the air was greeted by a small cloud of warmth with each exhale. Nearby streets were congested with bumper-to-bumper traffic, and the sidewalks were noisy with the thundering repetition of outsoles against cracked concrete. Bright orange streaks darted across the rosy-pink sky, while the red sun retreated under the horizon, dragging along the dark indigo blankets of the looming twilight. The city underwent such an active transition into the nighttime as the hoards of daytime workers retreated back to their homes to rest, and then repeat work again the next day. Although night is revered as a peaceful, quiet time, that is everything but the truth in The City That Never Sleeps.

Alfred was indifferent towards his new job at the local bar. It's not something he endured three years of college to get his degree for, but in this economy, there were really no other available options. He was not the type that really drank, or was interested in drinking other than on special occasions or when dared at parties, (learning how to turn down a dare was a difficult and unfruitful process for him). Of course as a bartender, he got to do and see a lot of very interesting thing he wouldn't get to normally see, especially since he had to remain sober while working. It still wasn't very nice having to sleep through the day and wake up exhausted because the sun was already about to set, and then walk in the opposite direction through bustling crowds just to be surrounded by drama, and the various pungent smells of alcohol with added excess testosterone. He honestly thought nothing would be worse than the highschool locker-room after another loss for the school football team. At least after his shift was over he was able to enjoy a quiet walk back home, and not worry about an over-crowded subway train. Living alone was an adventure in many different ways, and he wasn't about to give it up and waste his youth.

The type of 'ambiance' heard while dining in a restaurant was comparable to what was heard in a pub, except for the random fluctuations in sounds as the sports game on the TVs heated up, fights broke out, people got too drunk to function, or someone lost a small fortune over a game of pool. Things like this he couldn't control, but he could control the smile he wore on his face, and the satisfaction of the customers that asked for a drink or needed someone to talk to. Conversations with the bartender were sacred, and extremely confidential. Alfred never judged a soul that walked in, and it wasn't because it was against his code, he just wore his heart on his sleeve and was always willing to please. If he hated his job, it would make working at it far more difficult to bear. Usually the people that walked into his bar were distraught business workers, stressed college students, people suffering from bad break-ups, or just people looking to have fun or settle scores over betting on a game or a pool match. It was uncanny how well these things were portrayed in movies, except for one thing.

She dressed like a million bucks, hell, her entire outfit was probably worth more than the entire block. This woman should be going to one of those overpriced clubs where you just need to look the part to get in and all of the drinks were served in tiny glasses and imported from random European countries to make people feel like they were sitting in the laps of luxury. Instead, she was here in this dirty, practically-falling-apart bar. She didn't look real, she was as pale as a ghost, and hair that was platinum blonde, sheen enough to make Alfred believe it probably had hairs made of solid platinum. She moved silently, despite how tall heels normally sounded on the creaky, water-damaged, wooden floorboards. As she approached her usual spot at the island table to claim the exact same bar-stool that always remained unoccupied, even when the place exceeded maximum capacity, Alfred couldn't help but watch from the corner of his eye as he polished a glass for her. She never had to buy a drink herself, someone always bought one for her, knowing exactly what she wanted. She never spoke a word to Alfred, just sitting there as her 'date' chatted her up. What was even weirder was that she always walked in with a different date, but her drink always remained the same. A full glass of plain Vodka, nothing else. No matter how much she drank she never walked out of the bar even a little tipsy. What did he expect though? This woman was Russian. Her accent was thick, cold just like her appearance. She was taller, and probably much stronger than him. Ever since he started working here this woman of ice and riches always came in, but this time she didn't have a date, and wore bright red lipstick to grab his attention, and actually acknowledged him for once.

Alfred was very quick with preparing drinks, especially when he was paid and even tipped in advance. The glass hardly made a sound as it landed on the solid surface, and he didn't leave a drop as he poured the clear drink in a disgustingly copious amount. Before he could turn back around to consider his conversation with one of his old classmates, the woman spoke up, and not to the person next to her, or her nonexistent date, but to him. "Alfred? I don't mean to trouble you, but I didn't ask for anything." He was completely thrown off from her comment, but was attentive, and removed her drink from the table. "...Sorry about that, someone already paid for your drink and I just thought you already knew. So, what made you want to actually chat up the bartender tonight?" He let out a small chuckle, but he knew he probably came off as rude to this foreign woman, regretting his choice of words. She could practically smell the nervousness on him. "I'm sorry about that, I didn't want to trouble you. You always looked so busy," she replied sweetly. He took a deep breath to try and calm himself from the building anxiety. "It's fine sweetheart, I'm always open to a conversation, so just don't be afraid to start one. It helps pass the time in this boring place," he laughed, but not for long seeing as she gave him a puzzled look that pierced through her dark sunglasses. Who wore sunglasses at night? Maybe being one-step from being an albino still had consequences, but the lights in the pub weren't that bright. Often, they were too dim people bumped into each other or objects. "Mind if I ask your name? I always see you come in here so it wouldn't hurt to know." he asked carefully, not wanting to sound like he intended to stalk her later. It took her a few moments, but she eventually replied,

"Anya."