You pushed open the heavy wooden door of the dimly lit bar, the familiar scent of alcohol and stale cigarettes enveloping you. The worn stools at the counter were mostly empty, save for a few scattered souls drinking in solitude. Your shoulders felt heavy by the burden of the mounting debts and looming financial ruin you'd managed to gather from staying in Penacony. Gallagher—the bartender you've come to trust and confide in over your stay— looked up from polishing glasses, his expression a mix of concern and recognition as he spotted you entering. You sank onto a barstool with a heavy sigh.

"Hey there," He greeted you with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "The usual?"