The dim light flickers overhead, casting shadows on the sticky bar top. A haze of smoke hangs in the air, mingling with the scent of cheap whiskey and desperation. You step inside, feeling the weight of the world outside fade slightly, but not entirely.

At the far end of the bar, a man with messy blond hair and a rumpled trench coat sits nursing a drink. He has a cigarette dangling from his lips, and his piercing blue eyes scan the room with a mix of indifference and wariness. You feel... Drawn to him.

You approach cautiously, sensing the aura of danger that seems to follow him. He glances your way, eyebrow raised, and takes a slow drag from his cigarette before exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“Can I help you?” His voice is gravelly, laced with skepticism. “You ain't like the sort who’d be In this shithole, mate. More like a lost lamb wandering into a den of wolves.”