Drinks first

Between bouts, they discovered the club's backroom—a repurposed cargo hold where the air smelled like sweat and poor decisions. A seven-foot Krothian in a stained apron presided over a makeshift bar, doling out drinks that glowed suspiciously. Susan slapped down their winnings. "What's the strongest thing you've got that won't melt our insides?" The Krothian grinned, revealing several missing teeth, and slid over two mugs of something that bubbled ominously. Adam sniffed his. "This smells like regret." Susan clinked their glasses together. "Tastes like home."