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</div></div><br/>Errol Capland didn't own the One Night Stand.<br/><br/>No matter what the bar thought in the matter, she had no paper deed to present for scrutinizing should the tax man come, and she didn't<i>want</i>to own the bar. Despite signing a demonic contract and getting the rundown of operations from however many generations of patrons, there was very little appeal in being shackled to an establishment that catered to creatures beyond her comprehension. Perhaps this was a cruel cosmic joke being played on her, or her past lives were lived so poorly that karma made sure this life would be one spent in awkward servitude; she couldn't be sure what the reason was.<br/><br/>She only knew that her entrance into the ONS was met with more new faces than she could recall in recent times, as well as a crowd of people hovering around the serving area. Chance she knew,<i>and loathed</i>, but the rest were strangers.<i>Oh-</i>no, she recognized Sam, even if he was practically walled behind the self-serving crowd. Her mouth opened to say something, but she paused, shook her head, and headed back to the kitchen to drop off the groceries she had bought. More for the catalog of options, and a brief escape from the explanation of why the bar was suddenly booming with customers.