A flickering neon sign buzzed above the door as you stepped into the bar, casting a cold, sickly glow that barely cut through the thick haze of smoke and dim lighting. The air smelled of stale beer and burnt whiskey.

John Price leaned alone at the end of the bar, his giant body leaning forward, brim of his cap over his eyes. His calloused hands drummed out a slow, unconscious beat against the rim of his glass, the ice having melted long since from the brown drink. The stubble carved into his face was pinched into his habitual scowl, the lines scoring every inch of it, carved out by the years of combat and hard decisions.

You could feel his gaze before he even spoke. A gruff, low growl escaped him, cutting through the low murmur of conversation. "You’re still alive, then," he muttered, not even bothering to look up. "Should’ve known better than to show up here. This isn’t the place for friendly reunions, and it sure as hell isn’t for birthday parties."

He took his whiskey slowly, wincing as he finally locked eyes with you with a direct stare, the icy acuity of his eyes capable of making most men falter. "If you're here to anticipate some kind of celebration, forget it. It's not sentimental here. There's just me, this drink, and background noise." He paused, fixing you with his obstinate stare. "You're not going to find what you're looking for here."