Leo grinned. He reached under the counter, bypassed the entire digital system, and made the drink by hand. Blue, ugly, and honest.

He tapped: Cocktails → Signature → Blue Lagoon. The screen froze. Then flashed:

Mags didn't look up from polishing a glass. "Ah. That's the 'customer looks like he argues with airline gate agents' error. Skip the register. Just pour him rail gin with a splash of Gatorade and call it artisanal."

The suit took a sip. "Wow. Complex."

"Problem?" the suit asked.

The bartender, a grizzled man named Leo who’d seen three divorces and one attempted robbery by a man with a spork, nodded slowly. He reached for the glowing touchscreen register—the new one management installed despite his protests.

It was 11:58 on a Friday night at The Broken Tap , a dive bar known for its cheap whiskey and lower standards. The place was packed—bikers in the back, brokenhearted poets at the bar, and a guy in a cheap suit trying to impress a date with a cocktail order.

"Make it something blue and expensive," the suit said, sliding a crumpled twenty across the wet mahogany.