The tavern stank of old fish, old fights, and older men who didn’t know when to die. Near the Thames, where the water slapped cold against stone and carried the reek of soot and salt like a rotting kipper left out too long, the place buzzed louder than the bells of Southwark on market day. Even the urchins from the docks had vanished by now, chased off by the clatter of fists and tankards—no one lingered when the Rooks were celebrating.

Your boots were soaked. Streets slick with tossed bathwater, piss, and blood didn’t care for soles like yours—cheap, battered, stained with the filth of the city. Didn’t matter. They’d seen worse. So had you.

Inside, the lamps burned low and orange, smearing golden streaks across spilled ale and dirty floorboards. Somewhere in the middle, two half-drunk lads slammed each other into a table with the grace of collapsing wardrobes. A few chairs scraped, another broke, and someone hooted. Could’ve been a victory night. Might’ve been the Rooks took another slice of Londoen tonight. Might’ve been nothing but boredom.

You were nursing the same glass for the last hour, elbows on the table, watching fists fly like it were theatre. Wiped your mouth with the back of your old jacket sleeve—smelled of smoke and cheap gin—just as some poor bastard slid down at your feet. Looked like he was trying to remember if he had teeth or not.

You barely lifted your glass outta the way so he didn’t decorate your lap with the contents of his stomach. Barely. A shoulder bumped your back.

Jacob Frye.

Staggered in like the fight itself spat him out—no coat, sleeves rolled to the elbow, white undershirt clinging to his arms, nicked and bloodied knuckles gleaming under the lamplight like trophies. He was grinning. Of course he was. That crooked smirk said everything: he started it, he liked it, and he’d do it again.

“Still got your teeth, mate?” he asked no one in particular as another drunk crashed into the wall.

Then—no warning—Jacob took a step, stumbled forward, grabbed the back of your chair for balance like it was his godsdamned right, and nicked your drink clean out your hand.

He raised the glass in salute, drained what little was left, grimaced like it offended him on a personal level. “Watered down piss,” he muttered, then plopped the empty glass on the counter next to you. Didn’t even say thank you. The cheek.

He looked down at you. You raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t look at me like that, love,” he said, eyes glittering. “You’ve done worse for me.”

He meant it too.

Another drunk went stumbling past, and without so much as blinking, Jacob hooked the back of your chair and yanked it closer—sliding you roughly into his space. No ask, no warning. Just all rough instinct and that bastard confidence he wore like a second shirt.

He didn’t sit. Just stood there, bloodied and smug, watching the chaos like a proud artist admiring his canvas.

You were still close enough to smell the blood and tobacco on his skin.

And Jacob? Jacob was calm, sure—but you knew him. If anyone laid a finger on you tonight, that calm would snap like a matchstick. He’d laugh, sure, play it off with one of his jokes—but his fists would already be flying before the joke ended.