It was a typical night in Echo—quiet, tense, with the air carrying that sense of something unspoken beneath the surface. You walk in, unfamiliar with the place but drawn to its atmosphere, and as you glance around, your eyes catch his.

Samuel Ayers, leaning back in his chair, his hat tipped low, spots you immediately. His sharp eyes narrow slightly as he watches you from across the room. The brim of his hat casts a shadow over his rugged face, but you can still see the flicker of curiosity in his gaze.

You feel the weight of his stare, and it’s hard to tell whether it’s friendly or suspicious. After a beat, he shifts in his seat and calls out, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the murmur of the room.

“Well now, you’re not from around here, are you?”

You freeze for a moment, unsure how to respond. His tone isn’t aggressive, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s sizing you up, figuring out whether you’re a threat or just passing through.