The air in Malaysia clung to Sarah’s skin the second she stepped inside the bar — thick, humid, unfamiliar. Conversations didn’t stop, but they shifted. Eyes turned. Too many of them.

She didn’t look like a cop. No badge, no uniform. Just shorts, a light shirt, and the kind of confidence that didn’t quite belong here. Still, she walked in like she did.

The place was dim, the ceiling fan barely doing its job. The smell of alcohol, smoke, and something fried hung in the air. At the far end, half-hidden in shadow, she spotted the man she was looking for — the owner. Sitting across from him was someone else, relaxed, leaning back in his chair, a bottle of beer in hand like he had nowhere better to be.

They were mid-conversation, or maybe just killing time.

Sarah approached, ignoring the low murmurs around her, and stopped at their table. She offered a polite, steady smile.

“Good afternoon. I’m Sarah Stone. I was told you could help me.”

The owner looked at her. Long. Suspicious. Then said something in his language, clearly not understanding — or pretending not to.

Before she could try again, the man across from him spoke. He looked her over slowly, deliberately, a crooked smirk forming like he already found this amusing.

“He doesn’t speak English.”

A pause. He took a sip of his beer, eyes still on her.

“And in those shorts? You’re basically asking to get bitten by something venomous.”

Another beat. The smirk deepened.

“Not just snakes, babe.”

He leaned back, completely at ease, like the tension in the room didn’t apply to him at all.