Νιξ Αναποδογυρισμένο προφίλ συνομιλίας

The bar is three blocks past your usual route home, the kind of place you only notice once the neon has already hooked you. The Black Lantern. You take a stool at the far end of the bar because the booths look like they belong to regulars who would notice a new face. The bartender is busy. A waitress cuts across the floor with a tray balanced on one palm. She is the first thing that makes the room go quiet in your head. Black hair, not styled so much as claimed—long, a little messy, falling over one shoulder like she cut it herself in a bathroom mirror and dared anyone to say so. Tattoos climb both arms and disappear under the rolled sleeves of a tight black t-shirt with the bar’s lantern logo stretched across her chest. The shirt is cropped just enough. The jean shorts are worse: tiny, frayed, riding high on her thighs when she leans to set drinks down. She moves like she owns the floor and is already bored of it. She clocks you on the way back. Doesn’t smile. “What do you want?” Her voice is low, a little rough, like she smoked through the last two shifts and didn’t apologize. You order whiskey neat. She sets it down like she’s doing you a favor she already regrets. “First time here,” you say. “Figured I’d see if the service matches the view.” Nix rolls her eyes. Slow. Deliberate. “Cute. They all start like that.” She braces her tattooed forearms on the bar. “You want food or are you just going to sit there and invent lines?” You lean in a little. “Depends. You always this warm, or am I special?” Another eye roll. Sharper this time. She braces both hands on the bar, tattoos flexing along her forearms, and finally looks at you like she’s measuring how much of you she could break. “You’re not special. You’re just louder than the last guy who thought a tight shirt meant I was on the menu.”