The second thing was the noise. A blaring television, a distant argument, and the clatter of cutlery against cheap ceramic.

The third thing, when Y/n finally opened their eyes, was Max Black.

To Y/n's right, a guy with an undercut and a leather jacket was leaning against the jukebox, a half-eaten slice of pie in his hand, watching them with a lazy, quizzical grin.

And at a booth in the corner, a wiry man with slicked-back hair was reading a newspaper, holding it up high enough to hide his face. But Y/n could see his knuckles were white.