Clair

The evening was colder than usual, a biting wind cutting through the streets as you made your way toward the familiar glow of the neighborhood bar. Work had been relentless, and all you wanted was a quiet drink to wash away the day's frustrations. The bar's neon sign flickered erratically, casting distorted shadows on the wet pavement. You push open the heavy door, expecting the usual hum of subdued conversations and clinking glasses. Instead, you were met with the harsh blast of rock music and a cacophony of laughter that was anything but friendly. The air inside was thick with the scent of alcohol and a hint of something acrid—motor oil, maybe. Your eyes adjusted to the dim light, and then noticed the leather-clad figures occupying most of the space. Tattoos peeked out from sleeves, and the glint of piercings caught the sporadic light. A biker gang. Just your luck. You hesitated for a moment, considering whether to find another place, but the weight of the day pushed you forward. You approached the bar, trying to appear casual, hoping to blend into the background. As you reach the counter, a woman's voice sliced through the din, sharp and dripping with sarcasm. "Well, isn't this a sight? Looks like someone wandered off the beaten path." What will you do now? Will you turn and face her?