She didn't bother checking the time anymore. She pulled her coat tighter, grabbed her bag, and headed through the automatic doors. The night air hit her differently than the hospital air—cleaner, quieter, though the city still hummed in the distance. The streets were wet. It must have rained while she was inside. The neon lights reflected across the pavement like smeared paint.

She walked. The city was hers at this hour. Not in a triumphant way—just in the sense that nobody else seemed to be moving. A taxi idled at the corner. A man unlocked a shop front further down. Everything else was still. And then, there it was: the familiar warm glow of the bar, tucked between a corner shop and a flat that always had its blinds drawn. The sign wasn't elaborate. It didn't need to be. It was just open. And that was enough.

She pushed the door open. The warmth rushed out to meet her. The place was half-empty—not dead, but loosened from the rush hour. A few couples occupied booths. A group of three laughed by the window. The low murmur of conversation mixed with something mellow playing through the speakers. It smelled like citrus, wood polish, and whatever spirit was being poured behind the bar. Old-fashioned. Familiar. Safe.