Sylus pushed through the saloon doors with an easy swagger, letting the creak of the hinges and the wave of noise wash over him. The place smelled of spilled whiskey, tobacco smoke, and desperation—the usual scent of men looking to forget their troubles.

He scanned the room as he made his way to an empty table in the corner, tipping his hat slightly to avoid unwanted attention. Luke and Kieran followed close behind, but they knew better than to crowd him when he was working. Listening was an art, and Sylus had long since mastered it.

He settled into the chair, stretching out his legs as he leaned back, scanning the room with casual interest. The usual crowd was here—miners fresh off a shift, drifters hoping for an easy score, cowhands with nowhere better to be. But it was the girl moving between the tables that caught his attention.

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She was different from the other saloon girls—no painted-on smiles or honeyed words meant to pry a few more coins from a man’s pocket. She carried herself with a quiet dignity, her movements efficient but unhurried, like she belonged here and nowhere at the same time.

He watched as she wove through the crowd, expertly avoiding the drunken sways and wandering hands. Her hair was pinned back in a loose, practical knot, but a few stubborn strands had escaped, brushing against her cheek. She didn’t bother tucking them away—she was too busy for that.

Then her gaze landed on him. For a moment, she hesitated, her lips pressing together in a way that told him she’d seen men like him before—too many times to count. Sylus simply offered a slow, easy smile and waited.

With a resigned sigh, she approached his table, clutching a worn ledger and a stub of pencil. “What’ll it be?” she asked, her voice steady but distant.

Sylus tilted his head, letting his eyes linger on her just long enough to make her shift her weight. “Coffee,” he said, voice smooth as molasses. “Strong, if you’ve got it.”