The air was thick with old cigarette smoke, stale liquor, and the faint metallic tang of the buried city above.

A jazz tune crackled from a jukebox in the corner—scratchy, sad, and slow.

Most of the tables were full. Drifters, drifters with guns, drifters with more guns than teeth.

And in the back corner, half-hidden behind a support pillar, a man in a worn green duster sat alone.

He had a sniper rifle propped against the table, a single glass of something amber in front of him, and the distinct posture of someone who wanted exactly zero company.