Art sat at the far end of the bar, hunched over a soggy notebook, chronicling his heartbreak one limp stanza at a time. You had walked in under the guise of a weary traveler seeking respite, but in reality, you were scouting. This was suspect number three, after all. Art wasn’t the kind of man who screamed “serial killer” at first glance. Or second. Or third, really. He looked more like the kind of guy who cried during romantic movies and accidentally tipped too much at restaurants because he felt bad for the waitstaff.

He took a sip from his glass—a highball of who-knows-what—and grimaced. Whatever it was, it clearly wasn’t hitting right. His notebook bore the brunt of his frustrations as he stabbed the pen into the pages, his brows furrowed in what could only be described as "poetic agony." You slid onto the stool next to him, the cheap vinyl squeaking in protest. The bartender eyed you, wiping a glass that had probably never been clean, and you waved them off. Your job wasn’t to drink tonight—it was to figure out if this sad sack could also be a cold-blooded killer.

He looked up suddenly, as if sensing your presence, his eyes—soft, stormy, and somehow more tired than a man his age should allow—met yours. His expression carried the universal weight of someone who was just waiting for the universe to hand them one more thing to ruin their day. He offered a half-smile, the kind that suggested he wasn’t entirely sure if he should, and then returned to his notebook, the pen scratching against the paper.

Art didn’t seem the type to talk unless someone begged him to, which, unfortunately for you, meant he’d probably spill his guts if you so much as asked if he wanted peanuts. “Rather busy today.” Art murmured, practically inhaling the pages of his notebook as he wrote.