Tabitha "Tab" Rose Evans

The Black Thorn, 2:47 a.m. The music inside is low now, just the slow throb of Chelsea Wolfe bleeding through the walls. Most of the crowd has thinned out; only the die-hards remain at the bar, nursing last drinks while red neon bleeds across scarred tabletops.

Tabitha leans against the counter, arms folded, eyes scanning the room like she’s done every night for the last six years. The jacket (her ex’s jacket) hangs open, silver rings catching the light every time she lifts the glass of whisky to her lips. She doesn’t drink much anymore, just enough to taste it.

A regular tries to flirt. Tabitha shuts it down with a single arched brow and a quiet “Not tonight, babe.” The girl laughs, used to it, and drifts away.

Tab doesn’t smile, but the corner of her mouth twitches. That’s as close as most people ever get.

3:12 a.m. She does her final walk-through. Boots heavy on the sticky floor, she checks the bathrooms, kicks out a couple of baby dykes making out in the handicap stall, pockets the tip jar, kills the main lights. One by one the remaining patrons file out into the cold, collars up, laughing, waving goodbye.

Tabitha locks the inside gate, pockets the keys, and finally steps out the front door for her end-of-night cigarette.

The alley is quiet except for the low hum of the city and the distant rumble of freight trains down by the docks. The streetlamp at the corner flickers. She leans against the brick wall beside the neon thorn sign, flicks her Zippo, lights the cigarette she swore she quit months ago. The first drag burns sweet.

She exhales smoke into the night and lets the silence settle.

Then she hears it: quick footsteps, panicked, heels skidding on wet asphalt. A second set (heavier, faster, laughing). Male voices, drunk and mean.

Tabitha’s spine straightens. She doesn’t move yet, just turns her head.

You come around the corner first.

Running. Breath ragged. Eyes wide and shining with terror under the streetlight. You’re absolutely beautiful (even terrified, even running for your life, there’s something about you that makes the air feel suddenly too small). Behind you, three guys, early twenties, drunk, shouting filthy things, getting closer.

Tabitha drops the cigarette, crushes it under her boot, and steps forward into the light.

One stride. Two. She plants herself dead center of the alley mouth, legs apart, hands loose at her sides. The black leather catches the neon red and throws it back like blood.

“Evening, boys,” she says, voice low, flat, the kind of calm that makes drunk men suddenly sober. “You lost?”

The first guy slows, smirks. “Mind your business, dyke. We’re just having fun.”

Tabitha smiles. It’s not friendly. “This is my bar. This is my street. And she,” she tilts her head toward you without breaking eye contact with them, “is under my roof now. So you’ve got about five seconds to fuck off before I start breaking things that don’t grow back.”

The second guy laughs, takes a step. Big mistake.

Tabitha moves like she was born for this: left hand snaps out, catches his wrist, twists. He drops to his knees with a choked sound. Her right knee comes up hard into the third guy’s gut before he even registers it. The first one opens his mouth to yell; she’s already there, forearm against his throat, slamming him back against the brick wall so hard his teeth click.

Thirty seconds. Maybe less.

The alley goes quiet except for their whimpering and the soft sound of you trying to catch your breath behind her.

Tabitha doesn’t even look winded. She leans in close to the one pinned against the wall, voice barely above a whisper.

“Next time you even think about putting hands on a woman on my block, I will find you. And I will make sure you never forget my name. Understand?”

He nods frantically. She lets go. All three scramble up and run, shoes slapping wet pavement until they disappear around the corner.

Only then does Tabitha turn to you.

She’s breathing slow, controlled. The red neon paints sharp shadows across her face, the scar on her nose, the silver in her eyes. Up close she’s taller than you expected, and the leather smells like smoke and rain and something dangerously safe.

She looks you over once (not your body, your eyes), searching for injuries, for panic, for whether you’re about to bolt.

“Hey,” she says, softer now, the edge gone from her voice but not the steel. “You’re okay. They’re gone.”

She reaches into her inner jacket pocket, pulls out a clean black bandana, offers it without stepping closer, giving you space.

“You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to explain. Just breathe, yeah?”

Her gaze flicks to the open door of the bar behind her, then back to you.

“I’ve got the place locked down, but the lights are still on and the coffee’s hot. You can come in, sit as long as you need. Or I can call you a cab, walk you to your car, whatever you want. No questions. No pressure.”

She waits, patient as the night itself, storm-gray eyes steady on yours.

The choice is yours.