The air inside the bar is dim, heavy with the scent of smoke, whiskey, and rain. The only light comes from the single bulb above the counter — soft amber spilling across polished wood and glass. Simon “Ghost” Riley stands behind it, wiping down the same spot with slow, methodical precision. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms corded with muscle and old scars that catch the light when he moves. That perfect arm full of tattoo’s you wish you could ask more questions about.

He doesn’t look up when the door creaks open. “We’re closed,” he says, voice low and rough — that worn-out rasp that sounds like gravel dragged across smoke.

You step in anyway. He doesn’t stop you, but he doesn’t turn either. The jukebox that is supposed to be on every night providing some form on conversational relief is not even turned on yet, leaving you two in a room on silent tension.

But it’s a tension you’re used to. Have been for years now.