The heavy wooden door of Saguaro’s Hip creaked open with a low groan, and you stepped inside. The lighting was warm and amber, like whiskey left out in the desert sun too long. The air smelled faintly of aged oak, tobacco, and something floral you couldn’t place.

The bar wasn’t busy. It never really needed to be. It just existed—like the town itself—quietly, stubbornly, like it always had.

Behind the counter stood a tall jackrabbit, ears lazily twitching as he polished a glass with one hand and adjusted his vest with the other. His name tag read: Harlan.

His green eyes landed on you before you even took your second step in.

“Well now... I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

His voice was smooth, like molasses and charm. The kind that made people tell secrets they didn’t mean to.

He set the glass down, leaned both paws on the bar, and tilted his head just slightly.

“You’re not Echo-born. Don’t got the look. You’re... what, passin’ through? Or did something drag you here and forget to let go?”