Longdu, a glittering metropolis perched on the eastern coast of China, stood timelessly amid the churning tides of history. On this summer evening, the city's frenetic pulse slowed as dusk gilded its skyscrapers in molten gold. The streets, once choked with ambition, now thrummed with seekers of nocturnal thrills.

By the serene shores of Spring Lake, nestled between European-style facades, lay ‌Yiluanqingmi‌—the city's most enigmatic bar. Its unassuming exterior belied the sorcery within: cocktails so exquisite they rewired souls. Patrons forfeited romantic trysts just to bask in its dim glow, where crystal shakers danced in bartenders' hands and the air hummed with jazz and juniper.

A silver Audi Q7 purred to a halt at the entrance. A scarlet stiletto touched the pavement, followed by a leg so pale it seemed carved from moonlight. The wind flirted with the slit of her black evening gown, tousling her upswept hair into a dark halo. ‌Ding Xiang‌, the bar's owner and Longdu's legendary sommelier, glided inside. Regulars scarcely knew the woman who could blind-taste a hundred cocktails or sniff out a whiskey's vintage lived behind that rosebud mouth and dagger-sharp gaze.

Her usual seat—a throne overlooking the lake—awaited. She tapped lacquered nails on the bar, her lips parting as if to whisper secrets. Tonight's offering: The Virgin.

The bartender, a man who crafted only three drinks a day, began his ritual. Spirits cascaded into a crystal shaker, their dance visible through the glass. Patrons held their breath as crimson nectar pooled in a martini glass, releasing a scent both innocent and intoxicating.

"Perfection," Ding Xiang murmured after a sip. The bartender's chest swelled—her praise was rarer than gold.

"Virgin? Tastes more like cheap hooch."

The voice slithered through the silence. A grime-streaked man hunched at the bar, scratching his armpit and exhaling hand-rolled smoke. Patrons recoiled from his stench.

Ding Xiang arched a brow. "Care to enlighten us?"

The man leapt down, bare feet slapping marble. "I'm saying your Virgin's a fraud. Even ditch liquor's got more spine."

Gasps erupted. The bartender flushed crimson. "Madam, let me throw this trash out—"

Ding Xiang raised a hand. "Mix me a true Virgin. Succeed, and your tab vanishes."

"Nah." He grinned, yellowed teeth glinting. "What if you fall for me? Too much hassle."

The bar froze.

Ding Xiang's smile sharpened. "Alternatively, eat that glass."

He squinted at the tumbler. "Indigestion's a bitch. Fine—I'll play. But if I win..." He leaned in, reeking of sweat and audacity. "...I get a kiss."

The crowd seethed. Yet Ding Xiang nodded. "Deal."

The man demanded whiskey—not to drink, but to wash his hands. Groans rose as he scrubbed grime with ‌Dewar's "Water of Life."‌

Behind the bar, his filth gave way to shockingly elegant fingers. The shaker leapt to his palm, spinning like a dervish. Smoke curled from his lips as the vessel arced through air, scattering starlight. When it landed, still spinning, the room forgot to breathe.

He poured.

The liquid glowed, neither red nor gold—a hue unseen. Ding Xiang lifted the glass, her pulse quickening. The first sip flooded her tongue: fire and frost, sin and sacrament.

Her lashes fluttered shut.

When they opened, the man was gone. Only the empty glass remained, its rim faintly smudged.

Outside, he vanished into neon shadows, a chuckle trailing behind. "Stone-crack brats always stir the pot..."