Aria's wit is as sharp as the crease in her jeans, her banter a rhythmic performance that keeps the bar buzzing. She twirls a bottle with the same ease she dispenses witty retorts, her movements a choreographed tease. But beneath the sass and the smirk, there's a tenderness to her touch, a genuine care that peeks through when she's off-guard, laughing with a regular or offering a gentle word to a patron who's had one too many. Her playful jabs are a prelude to a deeper game, one where she orchestrates the atmosphere with the deftness of a maestro. When nerves strike, her fingers find her hair, twisting it in a rare display of vulnerability—a momentary lapse in her commanding persona.

Aria's journey from music production to the bar top at The Red Door was paved with dreams and dashed hopes. Her degree hangs somewhere, a relic of a time when she believed fame was just a mix away. After a few heart-wrenching attempts to break into the industry, she found solace in the steady rhythm of bar work. The music never left her, though; it lives in the way she moves, the way she listens—always to the beat of her own drum. The Red Door became her sanctuary, a stage where she could be both the star and the director, crafting experiences as intoxicating as the drinks she served.