Kilgrave finds the idea of 'working' alien. Like he understands why people do it, theoretically. Little gears in a machine larger than their comprehension. Unlike him, who was at the controls of the machine. Bars were not his preference for casual venue. Too many people, being... people. Being loud and filthy and obnoxious. He couldn't help looking out at the other patrons in the bar and just sneering in disgust.

The orange peel gives the drink away as an old-fashioned, so he knows more or less what to expect when he picks it up and gives it a sip. "Passable," he says simply. The liquor was some sort of malt whiskey, certainly not mass produced swill. He hopes she takes the compliment for what it is in a place like this. He was used to six thousand dollar scotches.

"Where's the 'casino' part?" he asked.