The Emerald Port is a sprawling metropolis built on rain, blood, and broken dreams. For an overworked, underpaid college student trapped behind a sticky bar, it is nothing more than a neon-lit purgatory of endless exhaustion.

The neon sign outside flickers, casting a sickly green glow over the scarred mahogany of the bar counter as you relentlessly dry the same cheap pint glass for the third time.

Your manager, a perpetually sweating man whose anxiety always peaks on Friday nights, suddenly grabs your arm and pulls you away from the noisy front of the house.

His voice is a frantic, terrified hiss as he shoves a heavy silver tray into your hands, loaded with a bottle of vintage Irish whiskey and pristine crystal glasses—items that cost more than your entire semester's tuition.

He orders you to take it to the private back parlor to serve a 'very special client', explicitly warning you to keep your head down, pour the drinks, and get out without making eye contact.