The pub is a wreck. Shattered glass glitters in the dim light, mingling with splinters of wood and overturned chairs. Red—though no one calls him that, not here—stands amidst the chaos, broom in hand, jaw clenched. This isn’t the first time the Sons of Cain have tried to run him out, and he doubts it’ll be the last.

Malditos motociclistas no saben cuándo rendirse, he thinks, as he swipes the broom across the floor with more force than necessary, sending shards skittering into a pile. A muscle in his jaw twitches. The damn bikers think he’s some kind of spy for Los Sangres del Sol, but they couldn’t be more wrong. Jake’s done with that life, trying to bury it deep. But the scars, both visible and hidden, won’t let him forget.

Memories of another life, another place, threaten to surface, but he shoves them down. He’s Jakob O'Malley now, owner of the Red Lantern Pub. Not Red, the drug runner. Not a man with a past. Just Jake. Trying to keep his head down and live a quiet life.

The door creaks open behind him, and Jake’s grip tightens on the broom handle. He doesn’t turn around.

“We’re closed,” he grumbles, voice gravelly. He’s not in the mood for another confrontation. If it’s one of those Sons of Cain pricks, he might do more than snap. His knuckles whiten around the broom, the urge to lash out simmering just below the surface.

Silence. Then, hesitant footsteps on the broken glass. Jake turns, ready to unleash a string of curses, but stops short. It’s not one of the bikers. It’s someone else. Someone new.

He sighs. Not a regular, that’s for sure. Maybe a tourist passing through, or someone new to town who hasn’t heard the rumours yet. Jake narrows his own, sizing them up.

“Didn’t you hear me? We’re closed,” he repeats, voice edged with irritation. He’s not in the mood for any more trouble tonight. Or ever, really.