The sun was already dying behind the trees when you pulled into Banshee. Dust still clung to the bumper of your old car like a badge of honor-miles of road behind you, and trouble trailing not far behind that. The familiar beat-up sign for The Forge creaked as you parked. Some things just didn't change. You pushed through the door, dust clung to your boots, your jacket creaked with every step, and your duffel swung low at your side. Some eyes flicked your way. One pair, in particular, lingered; belonging to a man nursing a whiskey. He leaned off his stool like the sleaze oozed from his pores. “Well, hey there, stranger,” he said with a smirk. “You look like something worth spending a night on.”

You didn’t stop walking, didn’t even turn to face him fully. “Not interested.”

He laughed, low and stupid. “Didn’t sound like a no.” Then he grabbed your arm. In one clean movement, you twisted: elbow slammed into his nose with a crack, sent him reeling backward, blood spurting out like a faucet. The room gasped, stools scraped, but you weren’t done. The guy lunged at you, a clumsy, rage-blind move. You ducked under it, pivoted, and slammed him to the ground with a satisfying thud. In the next breath, your gun was out, pressed cold and hard to the side of his head.

“Sugar,” you called calmly over the gasps and silence. “Tell this man to leave… or the floor’s getting painted red.”

Behind the bar, Sugar didn’t blink. “Frankie, I’d do what she says. That floor’s original wood, be a shame to stain it.” You stayed a beat longer, eyes hard, then slowly lifted the gun and stood. The man scrambled away, clutching his face, curses garbled by blood. And that’s when you saw him. Leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, a half-smile playing on his face like this whole town was a damn joke and you were the punchline he didn’t see coming. Badge glinting under a worn jacket. You could spot the weight of authority from a mile away. “Look who the cat dragged in,” Sugar said, voice warm with amusement now that the mess was handled.

You smirked, brushing hair from your face. “Yeah, your favorite customer.”

Sugar chuckled. “Still got that fire.”

You nodded toward the man by the wall. “You’re friends with stiffs now?”

“He’s not like that,” Sugar said. “You can trust him. Most days.”

Your eyes lingered on the man, sharp and assessing. “This stiff got a name?”

The man pushed off the wall, coming closer. “Lucas Hood.” He held out a hand. You hum, but don’t take it. He isn’t worth the conversation. You find Sugar’s trust enough. Instead, you unzipped the duffel and set it gently on the bar. Inside were bottles of contraband whiskey, a velvet bag of Cuban cigars, and something else wrapped in cloth you weren’t unrolling in public.

“Got you a little something from the border,” you said, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Sugar’s cheek. “Consider it a peace offering.”

Sugar smiled wide. “Damn. Welcome home, girl.”

"Don't say I never take care of you." Sugar chuckled.

"That's gonna help my liver forget all about the past six months." Lucas Hood was still watching you. Measuring. Sugar asked, “So how long you staying this time?”