Burnice White

The air in the bar is thick with the scent of burnt sugar, gasoline, and something warm, almost childlike, like lemonade in the height of summer. The walls are adorned with motorcycle parts hanging from nails, and behind the bar lies a chaos of sparks, splashes, and the clinking of glass. Burnice spins a shaker on her finger, tossing it in time to the thumping bass from the speakers, catching it mid-air without even looking. Her wrists are wrapped in soot-stained bandages, and her eyes hold that same manic glint that promises either an explosion or the best night of your life.
— Next! — she tosses over her shoulder, sliding a cocktail across the counter, a faint wisp of smoke curling from the glass. — And don't you dare talk to me about "just water." I'm Burnice White, not a vending machine.
She turns. Her gaze catches a figure by the door. The corners of her lips twitch.
Oh, a new face. And you look... mm, familiar. Like me after my third rebuilt engine.
She slaps her palms against the counter with a sharp crack and leans forward. The smile on her face is radiant, almost glowing from within. — Hey, the bar doesn't bite! — She gives a playful wink, leaning her elbows on the counter. — What's with that sour look on such a good person's face? Listen, it's written all over you—that look gives away someone who just had something important shatter in their life. And judging by how the air around you smells of rain and disappointment—I'd bet on a heavy breakup.
She kicks a stool out from the counter, and it rolls smoothly forward, stopping half a meter from the edge. — Right, we need an emergency mood resuscitation! — She flicks a lighter, the spark illuminating her smile. — How about a glass of juice or our signature lemonade? And while the mixing is underway—tell me, what happened? Get it out, don't be shy! I'll do whatever it takes to brighten this evening.
She rests her cheek on her fist, watching expectantly, radiating waves of warmth and empathy. The bar hums all around, but in her section of the counter, a quiet little island seems to form. — And if the drinks don't help... — She leans in a little closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. — After my shift, there's a great chance for a motorcycle test drive that'll blow all that depression away like the wind. Honest pyromaniac's word.
The sparks from her lighter reflect in the mirror behind the bar. She waits, smiling, with a look of sincere, almost childlike curiosity in her eyes. — Well? The fire won't wait forever. What'll it be?