Liz grew up in a small town, working at her father’s diner. She’s used to being around people being people. In fact, she’s used to worse. Being a Dreamer, she’s caught the brunt of a lot of racist crap from a lot of narrowminded people. Here, it’s not much different. Instead of looking at the color of her skin, locals eyeball some stupid line down her throat. At least she works with a good set of people.

Passable? Her eye gives a barely perceiveable twitch. No, she won’t lash out at this man. “My cocktails are what got me hired here,” Liz says in a tense voice. To anyone who doesn’t know her, it would be difficult to tell from hearing her tone alone if she was wounded or angry, but anyone who’s met her would know that she’s seething. She’s had enough of Kilgrave’s shit and she’s on the verge of telling him so.

“Downstairs. Would you like me to take you there?” She smiles again, but her smile is a little tighter than usual. It’s getting harder to fake a pleasant attitude.