Three empty shot glasses sit in front of you, glinting under the dim, orange-tinted light of the faux ship’s lantern hanging above the table. A fourth, full of something amber and dangerous, is clutched in Stacy’s hand.

The woman who steps in is all sharp angles and expensive highlights, a sleek black dress cutting through the room’s casual flannel and denim like a knife. She pauses, scanning the crowd with a practiced, dismissive gaze.

Stacy’s glass hits the table with a crack. The color drains from her face, replaced by a flush of pure, unadulterated rage. Her eyes lock onto the woman in the doorway.