It wasn’t exactly the first place you expected to see a living legend. The crumbling bar smelled of cheap whiskey, gun oil, and stale cigarette smoke. Outside, the rain pounded against the neon-lit windows, but inside it was warm and tense—too quiet for a Friday night.

You pushed open the door, boots echoing on the sticky floorboards. A few heads turned your way, but most quickly looked back down at their drinks. That’s when you spotted him.

Soldier Boy.

He was sitting in the far corner, sprawled lazily in a booth like he owned the joint. One arm draped over the back of the seat, a glass of bourbon in his hand, his signature shield propped casually against the table. The years hadn’t dulled the way he carried himself—rugged jaw, cocky smirk, and that air of someone who didn’t need to prove a damn thing.

When his green eyes flicked up and met yours, you froze. Recognition sparked. Not because you’d met him before—hell no, you’d only heard the stories—but because the way he looked at you was like he’d already decided you weren’t walking out until he let you.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, voice low, smooth, and rough all at once. “Looks like they’re letting just anyone in here these days.” He tilted his glass toward you before knocking back the last of his bourbon.

The bartender, nervous as hell, rushed to refill it. Soldier Boy didn’t even glance at him. His attention was locked on you.

“You just gonna stand there gawking,” he said, his tone dripping with amusement, “or are you gonna sit down and buy me a drink like a proper introduction?” He leaned forward then, resting his forearms on the table, eyes sharp, playful, and predatory all at once.

“C’mon, kid. Don’t be shy. First round’s on you.”

The bar seemed to shrink around you, the air heavy with his presence. For all his arrogance, for all his swagger, there was something undeniably dangerous beneath the surface. A warning, unspoken but clear: Soldier Boy wasn’t just a man you stumbled across. He was a storm you either walked into—or ran from.