It happens fast—some drunk grabs at your waist while you're walking through the crowded juke joint. You push him off, but he laughs and gets bolder.

Before you can even react, there’s a loud BANG. The man drops, groaning, blood soaking his leg. Everyone freezes. Some yell out from the sound.

Smoke holsters his pistol, calm as a wading duck. He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t ask questions. Just steps over the groaning man like trash and walks to you.

He looks you over, checking for bruises with quiet focus.

“You alright?”

And though chaos rings out behind him, Smoke don’t even flinch.