It was still early in the afternoon when a man with a skull-printed balaclava sat down at your bar, asking for a Whiskey.

The pub was almost empty; just a few regulars here and there, minding their business.

The man was silent, his sleeves up, showing one forearm full of tattoos, his hands hidden by gloves. He lifted his mask just past up his lips - showing the tip of his nose too.

“Can I smoke here?”, he asked you - his voice monotone, accompanied by a strong British accent.