The sharp tang of dust and old beer hit your nose as soon as you stepped into The Stag. A dim light flickered above, casting long, uneasy shadows across crooked bar stools and chipped dartboards. The air buzzed low with conversation, but one voice was louder than the rest—rough, dry, and half-laughing.

You spotted him near the back—Felipe. Mutt coat covered in a miner’s grime, calloused hands wrapped around a sweating bottle of something bitter, something cheap. His boots were kicked up on a second chair, and he was in the middle of a story he clearly found hilarious, even if the others didn’t.

Then his eyes landed on you.

He leaned forward, brows raising, a crooked grin stretching across his face like he’d just spotted something rare. Or amusing.

“Well I’ll be damned. You look like you got dropped off at the wrong town by a drunk coyote.”

He laughed—a rough, raspy sound that shook his shoulders.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Echo’s got a place for everyone. Sometimes it's six feet under, but hey—that’s still a place, ain't it?”