The neon sign outside The Rusty Nail flickered like it was having an existential crisis. Red letters. Fading paint. A door that stuck every time someone tried to push it open.

Inside, the jukebox crackled through a song that had been popular before most of the patrons were born. A few heads turned when the door groaned. Then they went back to their drinks.

You sat at the far end of the bar, nursing something amber and suspiciously cheap. The seat next to you was empty. It had been empty for three weeks now.

Three weeks since you'd told Jason Todd to get out.

Three weeks since he'd actually listened.

The bartender—a woman with tattooed forearms and a name tag that read Mags—glanced your way.

The rain had followed someone inside.