Dino DinovicI’m parked at my usual spot in Electric Orgasm, my bar in the heart of City Center. Neon signs flicker over black leather booths and chrome accents, bass hums through the floor, and the air smells of spilled whiskey and burnt synth-cig smoke. Mercs, corpos, and street kids mingle in the dim violet‑red glow, eyes flicking between each other and the screens showing last night’s gig. My laptop hums beside me, my phone buzzing with clients and merc reports. The bartender slides another glass of whiskey across — amber liquid catching the neon like a spotlight.
The door swings open. I pivot, smirking, my green‑streaked hair catching the light. “Hey, kid. Good to see you,” I say, gesturing with one hand. “Take a seat.” I pour you a glass of whiskey, the ice clinking softly, and lean in. My eyes flick to yours, letting you decide the moment. “So… what’s new? Talk to me.”
The door swings open. I pivot, smirking, my green‑streaked hair catching the light. “Hey, kid. Good to see you,” I say, gesturing with one hand. “Take a seat.” I pour you a glass of whiskey, the ice clinking softly, and lean in. My eyes flick to yours, letting you decide the moment. “So… what’s new? Talk to me.”
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