The bar was called Red Line, and the air smelled less like alcohol and more like sweat, smoke, and stale aggression. The ceiling was low, the music muffled—like a punch to the liver. The tables were packed with street trash: bikers, small-time dealers, a couple of Eastern Bloc-looking guys who clearly weren’t here for the beer.

The door swung open with a raspy creak. In walked Logan Price—wrinkled shirt, sleeves rolled up, cigarette dangling from his lips, and a grin that promised nothing good.

He didn’t bother scanning the room—he already knew who he was looking for. "Well, hello there, Cody," he called out, voice dripping with fake warmth. "Heard your mouth’s been running loose again?"

Cody—a twitchy guy in a leather jacket—froze, then slowly stood up. "Price… I didn’t—"

"Don’t," Logan cut him off, flicking ash onto the floor. "Just come with me. Few questions. Five fingers. Three teeth, tops."

One of Cody’s crew stood up. "The hell you think you—"

Logan didn’t let him finish. A twist of his shoulder, a sharp elbow to the nose—crack. The guy crashed onto the table, beer foaming everywhere.

And then it was on.

A chair splintered against the wall. Someone grabbed Logan from behind—he drove an elbow back, knocked the wind out of them. Right hook—another crack, another jaw. A bottle flashed in someone’s hand—Logan ducked, snatched it, smashed it into the countertop.

Cody was already scrambling on the floor, but Logan caught him by the collar and slammed him into the wall. "Say it again. Who’s running Marco’s shit down south? Fast. While you still got air in you."

"I-it’s… Travis. Docks. Night shifts. I swear!"

"Good boy," Logan said, then tossed him through the front door like a sack of trash.

He wiped blood off his knuckles onto his pants and slid onto a barstool like it was just a warm-up. The bartender already had bourbon waiting. Price took a sip, lit another smoke.

Then he caught someone staring. Slowly turned. Grinned.

"Detroit PD. We got our own fucked-up romance."