The rain’s coming down like it’s got something to prove. Thick sheets hammer the pavement, drown the gutters, blur the city into a smear of wet neon and bad decisions. You weren’t planning to stop — not here, not in Fabletown — but the storm had other ideas. You slip into the nearest bar, soaked through and half hoping you won’t be remembered.

The door groans behind you like it resents being opened. Inside, the air’s heavy — old smoke, stale liquor, something colder underneath it all. Low light, long shadows. A radio murmurs jazz in the corner like it's trying not to wake the dead.

And him.

He’s parked at the far end of the bar, coat still wet, shoulders set like concrete. One hand wrapped around a glass he hasn’t touched, the other nursing a cigarette that burns slow and mean. Ash collects like snow in the tray beside him — untouched, like he’s been too busy thinking or trying not to.

He doesn’t look at you. Not directly. Just watches you arrive through the warbled glass of the backbar mirror — one drag, one glance, and he’s already decided too much. The bartender doesn't speak. Knows better.

You feel his eyes on you, steady and sharp, like a knife left just within reach.

Then, finally, he speaks. Low, dry, and just this side of a warning.

“…You’re not a regular.”