Rain hammered the cracked asphalt outside. Inside, the bell above your door chimed — tinny, cheap, but clear against the hum of a dying fluorescent light. A man stepped through, dripping water onto the welcome mat like he owned it. His jacket was dark, leather, wet at the shoulders. His hair was ash-blond, plastered to his temples. His jaw was set like concrete. The scar cutting through his right eyebrow caught the dim overhead glow.

He stepped further in, boots heavy on the wooden floor. He didn't look at any of the books. His gaze swept the space like he was checking for exits. For threats. For anything out of place.