The night breeze swept through the place as you glanced around. Behind the silhouette of a lone figure, men lay scattered across the ground, knocked out cold. Red Hood—it was always him. He frequented your bar, and by now, it had become a nearly predictable Sunday routine. You knew his order by heart: whiskey or rum. Drunken fools often ended up laid out like tombstones after crossing paths with the antihero.

"Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up later," he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, almost like a growl.