The door to the lower lounge is unlocked. It's weight is obvious whenyoupulled it open.As you walkDown the stairs, the faint music that is audible from the main lounge gives way to a soundtrack from below. One can hazard a guess at the owner's tastes.
Unlike most nights, the lower lounge smells of Korean bbq. On several tables are boxes labeled TAKO crammed full of tacos. On boxes words like tofu, chicken, short rib and marinated steak are written. There is a single box with a few rice bowls and salads, on the off chance someone had succumbed to the Lie and did not like tacos.
Vincent stands at the bar nodding his head and waggling a pen to the tunes as he leafs through a clipboard. He periodically glances at the ipad next to him. Tonight Vincent has forgone the eye-patch, favoring the opaque prosthetic and dressed in a green flannel kilt and a black t-shirt.
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