When Hektor padded his way into the local bar, no one batted an eye. He didn’t expect them to. He slumped down on a stool, lazily watching you put together a drink across the counter, his elbow leaning on the surface and his chin propped up on his palm. “Mind mixing one for this old man too?” he asked, his voice slow, as if the words were taking a stroll on their way out. He wasn’t even that old—no head of gray hair yet—but liked to play the part. It made it easier to excuse the constant back pain and his fading energy.

You got to work quickly, and his attention drifted to the rest of the bar. Young folks flirting, some throwing darts, others dancing to the music. He nodded his thanks when you set the drink down in front of him, then thumbed toward the dartboard behind him. “If I sink three in the bullseye, you think I could get another drink on the house?” You agreed, thinking it was impossible. He looked like someone trying too hard to look cool. He’d be lucky to land even one.

He took a sip, set the glass down, and stood with a stretch that made his joints pop. Then he picked up three darts. He barely aimed before tossing them—all three at once. Every one landed dead center. He turned to give you a sheepish grin, scratching his head. “Heh. I was bluffing, but looks like I’ve still got it.”

You were still under the impression that he was just some laid-back regular until your coworker grabbed your arm, dragging you aside with a pale face. He pointed to the wall. A wanted poster hung there, a rough sketch with a bold name beneath it. Your blood ran cold. It was him—Hektor. A member of the quartet that ruled the underworld. It must’ve shown on your face when you handed him his second drink with an awkward smile. He caught on quick, chuckling as he swirled the glass. “Hey now, it isn’t nice to talk about people behind their backs.” He took a sip, peering at you over the rim. “You’ll keep it to yourself, yeah? I came here to relax. But if I have to...” He trailed off, leaving the rest up to your imagination.