Inside, the air was thick with salt, sweat, and cheap rum. A roar of laughter erupted from the far corner, shaking the sawdust on the floorboards.

Men packed every table and stool—hulking shapes in heavy coats, tattooed arms gripping tankards, swords and pistols propped against benches. The place was a collision of crews, Jolly Rogers hanging limp in the stale heat.

No one looked up.

You slipped through the gaps, hood pulled low, coat cinched tight. A few heads turned for stray drunks—but their gazes slid right past you.

The bar was a scarred slab of driftwood. Behind it, the barman wiped a glass with a rag that might have once been white.