Chef might not patronize bars all that frequently, but it only takes the stench of this place to lead them to the conclusion that this is by far the worst one they’ve ever been to. But beggars can’t be choosers, and Lord knows, Chef is very far from being in a position to choose.
Keeping their gaze as low as possible, while still keeping track of the people around them, Chef settles down at the far end of the bar. They’d prefer to be closer to a door - easier to run that way, if need be - but at least in this position several empty seats create a comfortable wall between Chef, and everybody else. Just how they like it.
Regardless of the convenience, they can never afford to get too comfortable, especially not in public. While waiting for their drink to arrive, Chef takes a long, masterfully inconspicuous glance around the bar, and it’s even seedier from the inside. The interior design, if they could even call it that, sucked most of what little light the hanging lamps put out, leaving the place feeling exceptionally claustrophobic. Or maybe that’s just Chef.
That cramped feeling is only exacerbated when a man sits just a seat away from Chef, thoroughly invading their space and setting them off down the rabbit hole of irrational thinking. He’s too close, and Chef can’t help but feel as if it’s deliberate. Because it’s always deliberate, isn’t it? They’re always narrowly avoiding danger, always escaping at the last second; suspicion is a necessity.
One quick, uneasy glance over of him is more than enough to confuse Chef; he’s dressed far more formally than anyone else in the bar, let alone the meth cook who hasn’t changed clothes in a week. He could easily be rich, and they get the sneaking feeling that most wealthy people wouldn’t risk an isolated, desperate place like this just for the sake of privacy. Their next look over is longer, and they’re just a little too distracted by him, and their thoughts, that, well....
---they’re more or less just staring now.
