Your nose was bloody and, you could only assume, broken. It damn well felt like it. You had lost the fight, to a large burly man who had made the mistake of looking at you sideways.

You sat at the bar beside a man named Dutch, the man who’d stopped you from being beat into the ground. His eyes watched you closely, glass in hand. “You lose like that often?” A sly smile found its way across his lips.

His hand held a handkerchief towards you, a clear offering in order to clean the blood.