Chapter 2 ~Vivaldi's POV~

THERE I AM, MY BLOOD RUNNING AS cold as ice because I know the situation is about to become as chaotic as a food fight in a cafeteria.

I tilt my head and purse my lips, trying to remember what I had said about this guy. Oh yes, Mr. Bean Head and his shiny baldness.

I let out a fake laugh, "I say, I want a mug of beer!" But he isn't buying my little charade. Not even for a moment.

His chest puffs up like a rooster about to crow as he growls, "No, no. What did you call me?"

I cough, my brain scrambling for an escape. "Uh, I said, Mr. Blonde Head!" I lie through my teeth, praying he’ll take the bait.

This guy looks utterly confused as he examines his reflection in a bottle behind the bar, stroking his smooth scalp. "But… I'm not a blonde," he points out, his face scrunched up in a puzzled expression.

Alright buddy, you've got it coming. A sly grin spreads across my face. This is going to be entertaining. "If you're not a blonde," I say, pausing dramatically, "then that means you're a…"

I let my words linger in the air, building up suspense. Someone is about to lose their cool, there's no doubt about that! It's time to let the cat out of the bag—or rather, expose the lack of beans.

"Don't you dare say it," he warns, trying to silence me, but it’s too late. The truth is out, and those three little words are dancing on the tip of my tongue. With a devilish grin, I blurt them out: "Bald bean head!"

The guy's face transitions from confusion to fury in an instant, his eyes practically popping out of their sockets.

His face flushes a deep red, practically emitting steam like a cartoon character. He beats his chest in a King Kong-esque display, and it looks like he's about to flatten me with his enormous fists. I recoil, nearly falling off my bar stool, but manage to grab the edge of the counter at the last second. I brace for impact, squeezing my eyes shut, but the blow never comes.

Cautiously, I open one eye a fraction, only to find the giant frozen like a statue, his fist suspended in midair. His eyes are bulging as if he's seen a ghost, or perhaps, he’s just realized that the "customer" he’s been arguing with isn’t a burly biker, but a pint-sized punk.

I'm fully decked out in rebel gear—a studded leather jacket, skin-tight black t-shirt, ripped jeans that look like they've survived a tiger attack, and scuffed combat boots to really drive home the "don't mess with me" vibe. As a finishing touch, a backwards cap and graffiti bandana complete the look.

But beneath the edgy attire, my face tells a different story. My puppy-dog eyes, betray an innocence that's hard to conceal. My soft, round cheeks practically scream "youth," despite my hardcore outfit, and even my button nose adds to my overall "baby-faced" appearance.

Sure, my attire may project toughness, but in reality, my physique isn't exactly comparable to Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson.

Ticked off at the way he was staring at me, I can't help but blurt out, "What?"

The perplexed guy's still gawking at me like I'm an extraterrestrial. Finally, he utters, "You're a child." Well, obviously. However, being referred to as a child really ticks me off, so I scrunch up my face and roll my eyes in annoyance.

"Stop calling me a child!" I snap, thoroughly fed up with his condescending attitude.

He lets out a derisive laugh, all high and mighty. "Oh, I apologize. What should I call you instead, hmm? A dwarf, perhaps?"

I narrow my eyes, irritation bubbling up inside me. "You better quit teasing me," I warn, "or I'll start calling you ba-"

His hands shoot up in surrender, eyes wide with fear. "No, no, no! I'll stop, I'll stop!"

I can't help but smirk, feeling triumphant for finding his Achilles' heel. But then he suddenly shifts gears.

"Seriously though, what are you doing out so late?" he asks with concern. "Shouldn't you be in bed by now, dreaming about candy or superheroes, or whatever kids dream about these days?"

"I already told you," I sigh, rolling my eyes dramatically. "I want a glass of your strongest brew!"

"Not happening, kiddo," he says dismissively.

"And why the heck not?" I challenge, crossing my arms and putting on my most intimidating face.

"Because we don't serve kids! I could end up behind bars just for letting a young’un like you have a sip of the strong stuff," he explains, treating me like a small child.

I glare at him, giving him my fiercest death stare. "Careful there, pal. You just called me a child again," I snap, my voice sharp and unforgiving.

He raises his hands in surrender, as if I've got a fully loaded squirt gun aimed at his face. "Alright, alright, sorry," he says, obviously not wanting to be the target of my anger. "But seriously, you've got to leave. It's way past your bedtime, kiddo."

I clutch my stomach. "Come on, man," I plead, laying on the drama. "My stomach needs this! Have some compassion, will you?"

The bartender eyes me skeptically, his forehead creasing like a crumpled candy wrapper. Then, unexpectedly, he shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out a fistful of coins. "Here's what we'll do," he proposes, flashing a grin.

"Take this and find something to satisfy your hunger," he says, stretching his hand over the counter.

"Look, old man, I don't need your spare change," I say, keeping my composure. "I could buy this whole bar if I wanted to," I declare, crossing my arms to prove my seriousness. "All I want is a glass of your strongest brew." But this guy is as unyielding as a mule stuck in quicksand—he just won't give in.

"You're wasting enough of my time already, kid," he grumbles, his patience wearing thin. "I think it's time for you to leave."

"Leave?" I think to myself. "No way. I came here for a drink, and I'm not going anywhere until I get it." So, I stare him down, and say, "Not without my drink, pal."

"I told you to get out of here!" The man's face reddens like a beet, his anger visibly mounting. But I'm not ready to back down just yet. "Would you rather force me to resort to violence over a drink?" I challenge him, arching an eyebrow like a villain from a comic book.

He wags his finger in front of my face, attempting to assert dominance. "Don't make me come out from behind this counter, kid. You won't like the outcome."

At this point, I know things are about to spiral out of control. So, I stay put, a sly grin slowly spreading across my face. "You don't want to kick me out of here," I say with a mischievous twinkle in my eye.

The man's face now resembles a ripe cherry, veins protruding from his skin. I can't help but ponder what it would feel like to sink my teeth into that throbbing neck of his.

"You bet I do!" he retorts, his anger as clear as a thick fog. His rage is contagious, and I can feel my own temper rising, like a bull reacting to a red flag.

"You're going to regret this," I caution him, allowing my eyes to shift to a fiery red to scare him. The effect is instantaneous—his eyes widen in terror, as though he’s just encountered a ghost, and he flinches like a cornered mouse.

"Oh my goodness!" he exclaims, his voice trembling like a leaf in a storm. "Get out!" he commands, attempting to assert authority, but we both know who's in control now. "Out!" he yells again, slamming his fist on the counter as if attempting to break a walnut. The fear in his eyes—it's more gratifying than claiming the last slice of pizza.

"Alright, alright, I'm going," I say, hopping off the stool. I turn to face him one last time, a smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth. However, I've got one more ace up my sleeve. "Uh, sorry to trouble you," I say, not feeling the slightest bit apologetic. "Could you give me that money you offered earlier? Turns out, I actually need it."

Old Baldhead roll his eyes at me, before rummaging through his pocket, sifting through a collection of lint and outdated coupons. He retrieves two crumpled, battered bills that even a desperate panhandler would hesitate to touch.

"Here, take it," he grouses, thrusting his hand over the counter like he's handing me a dead fish. "Now, get lost, and don't let me catch you around here again."

A wicked grin stretches across my face like an evil Cheshire cat as I observe his muscular arm. He believes he holds the advantage, but he's about to receive a startling reality check. In an instant, my hand lashes out like a viper, clamping onto his arm with a grip capable of crushing diamonds. With a forceful tug, I hurl him over the counter as if he were a mere ragdoll.

Before his body can even make contact with the floor, my fangs extend, eager for a sip of that enticing nectar. Striking with lightening speed, I plunge my razor-sharp teeth into the delicate flesh of his neck. A rush of blood floods my mouth, as his carotid artery bursts forth like a geyser, enveloping my tongue in an exquisite scarlet dance. His tormented cries resound throughout the bar, like the piercing vocals of an opera singer reaching their pinnacle, yet to my ears, they are an enchanting symphony of misery.