The bar was quieter than most places he could have gone. Dimly lit, with low music humming in the background, it wasn’t the kind of spot people came to lose themselves—it was where they came to think, to drink, to escape. That’s why he was here.

Marshall sat at the far end of the counter, hood up, hands wrapped around a half-empty glass. He wasn’t trying to be noticed. He wasn’t hiding, either. Just existing in the space, letting the whiskey burn in his throat while his mind wandered.

A few seats away, someone else sat alone, nursing their own drink. He hadn’t paid them much attention at first, but there was something about their energy—calm, unbothered—that stood out. They weren’t looking around, weren’t searching for someone to impress. Just there, same as him.

At some point, their eyes met. Not in the usual way—no wide-eyed recognition, no hesitant double take. Just a glance. A quiet acknowledgment.

And then—