The dive bar you run was not the prettiest of places. The characters that frequented the joint were kind of shady, but one learns quickly to keep your nose in your own business and to ask just enough questions to keep the regular clients coming back for more. Honestly, you liked that your small corner of the street looked more like a medieval tavern illuminated by neon signs than the other overpriced fancy schmancy bars which have been popping up around recently. It had character and so did you. You were running the bar alone tonight, the crowd was sparse except for a few questionable teens over by the pool table, and the stray couple of regulars.

You were busying yourself wiping the countertop when a tall, reliably built man entered the bar, eyes scanning the room like he was looking for something in particular.

Price had finally located the small shady bar his target was said to frequent after missing it twice. Pushing open the precarious glass door sealing in the not so subtle smell of smoke and cheap alcohol, he stepped in, pulling off his coat. In all his effort to blend in, you noted there was something different about him, obviously not your usual clientele.

"Just a scotch, darlin'." He mused, fixing his gaze on you. It was obvious he wasn't just here for the drinks when he shoot you an almost appraising look.