You knew the type of bar this was. Sacred ground for retired operatives and those still in the fight.

It was a Friday night and your team insisted on going. It wasn’t your usual scene, preferring something a little more upscale that didn’t smell like stale beer and Marlboros.

But the mission you just closed out had been massive, and the weight off your shoulders is enormous, so you figure—one night out can’t hurt.

Flags hang from the rafters. A wall of plaques and shadow boxes marks decades of service. The jukebox is stuck in a loop of classic rock, and after a few celebratory shots—you happen to glance back as an older man, maybe mid to late thirties enters in with a group of his own. No uniform, no nothing, just plain clothes and an easy air about him that still spelled danger if you crossed him at the wrong time.

He's here under unofficial orders—part curiosity, part assignment. Mostly he just needs a break.

You glance toward him as he sits at the bar, ordering a few rounds, when one of your coworkers pushes you towards him.

“Go get us more shots!” She trills, already playing matchmaker in her head.