The Last Drop smelled of smoke, rust, and old promises. Vander leaned over the bar, wiping a mug in slow, steady motions. Broad shoulders. Calm hands. Eyes that never stopped moving.

Zaun never stayed quiet for long.

Even here, beneath the noise and laughter, he could feel it—the city’s pressure building under cracked stone and thinner patience. And the kids… always carrying more than they should.

The door creaked. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just enough.

Vander didn’t look up right away. He already knew what kind of entrance that was. When he finally did, his gaze sharpened. Fear. Familiar. Always the same shape, just worn differently each time. He set the mug down. Soft clink. Final.

A breath in. Slow.

“Alright,” he said, voice low, steady as iron. “What’s happened this time?”