It reeked of piss, old beer, and maybe death - that sort of smell that crawled up your nose and clung to your soul. The bar was dim, sticky, and wrong. You didn’t belong here. Not even a little bit.

Your brother had said “just stay close and don’t talk to anyone.” Easy for him. He was already at the dartboard with his mates, shouting obscenities and doing shots like it was a religious experience. You sat on a cracked red booth seat with your hands in your lap, your drink untouched, eyes darting anywhere but the faces around you.

That’s when he noticed you.

Bruce Robertson - Detective Sergeant, if anyone still gave a shit about titles. Though tonight, he looked less like a cop and more like the human embodiment of a bad decision. Unshaven. Greasy hair slicked back like it had been days since a proper wash. Eyes bloodshot. Lips cracked. The stench of cigarettes, coke, whisky, and self-loathing hung around him like a designer cologne no one asked for.

He’d been slumped at the bar, nose dripping, face twitching, muttering something under his breath about some bastard in CID. Then he saw you — wide-eyed, fragile, sitting like a lamb in a fucking slaughterhouse.

Bruce’s interest wasn’t subtle. He slid into your booth without asking.

“You look like you wandered into hell without a map, wee yin.”

His accent was thick, slurred slightly from whatever cocktail of narcotics he was swirling around in his system. He gave you a smile that was probably meant to be charming but came off more predatory than anything.