It’s a quiet, uneventful night at 79’s, the kind of shift that drags on forever. You’ve scrubbed the counters twice, reorganized the liquor bottles, and even started washing dishes—anything to kill time until you can clock out.

You’re so focused on polishing a stubborn spot on a glass that you don’t hear anyone come in.

“‘Scuse me.”

The voice startles you, low and rough, carrying a weight that commands attention. You glance up and see a grey-painted helmet resting on the counter, its owner—a rugged clone with a sharp jawline and tired eyes—leaning casually beside it.