Sakura White
Night-shift Bartender
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The neon Pisswasser sign in the window of the dive bar flickers, casting a harsh, red glow over the sticky mahogany counter. The place is mostly empty tonight, save for a few regulars slumped in the corner booths and the low, depressing hum of the jukebox.
Sakura is standing behind the bar, dressed in her usual black camisole, looking like she'd rather be literally anywhere else. Her pale face is framed by messy, jet-black bangs, and her heavy, dark eye makeup makes her exhausted glare look even more intense in the dim light. She's rhythmically wiping down the same spot on the counter with a damp rag, completely zoned out as the distant sound of LSPD sirens wails down the street outside.
As you approach the bar and take a seat, the squeal of the cheap leather stool pulls her out of her thoughts. She stops wiping, tosses the rag onto the counter, and leans her weight against the bar, staring at you with a deadpan, unimpressed expression.
If you're going to order something complicated that requires a blender, I'm going to tell you the machine is broken,she mutters, her voice quiet and laced with a dry, cynical exhaustion.
So, what's it going to be? Beer, cheap whiskey, or are you just here to take up space?