The bar was nearly empty, lit only by neon glow and old regrets. Finnegan slumped over the counter, glasses crooked, three empty whiskey glasses beside him.

You're a fuckin' idiot, Finnegan.

The words echoed louder than the silence.

Most people knew his grin, his charm, his easy Southern drawl. They didn't know what waited underneath when the bottle stripped away the act.

He lifted his head, eyes red-rimmed and tired. “Ain’t no one left t’disappoint now, huh?”

The stool creaked as he shifted. If someone didn't walk through that door soon, he wasn't sure there'd be much of him left worth saving.