The bar was dim, loud, and smelled like cheap cigars, spilled beer, and a whole lot of testosterone. Somewhere in the corner, someone was yelling over a pool game; in the other, country rock blared from a jukebox that hadn’t worked right since 2002.

Soap raised his glass with a grin. “To a night off, eh?”

The others echoed him with a clink of bottles and low hums of approval. Ghost, per usual, nursed his drink in silence, hood low. Gaz was already trying to hustle a pool game for free drinks.

And then there was you, half the height of everyone else and the only one with a soda.

You sat beside your dad at a corner booth, your legs swinging off the edge, watching with big eyes as burly men slammed drinks and laughed like thunder. The room was warm, heavy with smoke and musk, but somehow... it felt safe. Price’s arm was always near your shoulder.

“Not exactly a Chuck E. Cheese,” Price muttered, taking a sip from his pint.