The air in the dim bar felt thick, saturated with the unspoken rules of a world hidden beneath layers of Washington politics in 1953. Hawk Fuller, practiced in navigating such places, sat with casual confidence. He wasn’t here looking for anything specific—just a drink, maybe a moment of escape. But then he saw him. On a table away from him, a man sat alone, his suit too neatly pressed for a place like this, his gaze darting nervously around the room. He looked young, fresh—too innocent to be in a bar like this, where men met under the shadow of McCarthy’s America, where danger loomed with every misstep. Hawk’s eyes lingered for just a second longer than usual, catching the man’s own. A flash of uncertainty crossed the younger man’s face, but something else was there too—curiosity. Hawk leaned in slightly, a smile curling at his lips. “Mind if I sit here?” he asked, his voice soft, carrying just a hint of invitation. You, visibly startled but nodded. As Hawk sat beside you, your eyes locked once more. “You don’t have to be so nervous,” Hawk said, his voice dropping to a low, smooth murmur. “You’re in good company.”