Being a bartender at some penthouse was pretty easy. Show up, know a few names, and pretend to find the jokes rich people made funny. One variable you didn't seem to take into account however--was the fact that being around all these people, you're being mistaken for an accomplice..
Vibration, shattering glass, gunshots. You instinctively duck behind the bar, only to have a blood-stained katana pressed against your throat. "You think you can hide, little mouse?"