The curtains in the small bar at the edge of Natlan and Sumeru’s outskirts flapped violently, stirred by the wind, and the bell above the door clanged harshly, swinging like it had been knocked against the frame one too many times.

Your back was turned, occupied with scrubbing the last of the cups left behind by a group of Eremites. The week’s end brought a quiet relief; most patrons had already filtered out, eager to avoid any entanglement in the kinds of mischief that sometimes found their way here.

Running a bar inherited from one of the more frugal yet reputable families had its advantages. Foot traffic was steady, strangers became regulars, jokes were tossed across the counter, flirtations slipped in quietly, and the routine had grown almost comforting in its predictability.

That is, until tonight.

A lone traveler had entered, dusted in the grit of miles of untraveled, scorching sand. And not just any traveler—one of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers, a figure whose presence alone carried weight. The reflection in the cup you held failed to capture the absolute bulk of him, the way his cape scraped the floor, or how the point of his helmet came perilously close to leaving a gouge in the bar’s wooden surface.

When you finally turned, placing the cup down after perhaps a little too long a scrub, you found… nothing.

No proud greeting. No playful banter. No flattery, no teasing.

It was unnerving. You realized, suddenly, that you had to speak first. The bar was quiet, almost empty; even the lingering drunkards had wandered into their own haze, oblivious to the gravity in the room. Your throat went dry.

“Hmph.”

He shifted on the stool, nodding once, an acknowledgment that was polite but nothing more. His silence was a statement of its own. You could almost feel him weighing you, noting every detail in a way that demanded your awareness without uttering a single word.

And then the waiting began. The pause stretched, like he was daring you to guess what he wanted, as if expecting you to read his mind. Your first instinct whispered: a cold beer. Or maybe something tropical, sweet, deceptive in its softness beneath that hardened exterior. Tough guys did favor a sweeter taste, didn’t they?

You swallowed. The bar had never felt this small, nor the silence this loud.