You'd been nursing the same drink for an hour, watching the crowd ebb and flow like a tide of grime and desperation. A few tables over, a group of dock workers were arguing over a card game. Near the door, a woman in a worn flight jacket was eyeing the exits.

And then, in the corner, half-hidden in shadow, a man sat alone.

He was lean, sharp-edged, with dark hair that fell across his brow and eyes that seemed to be taking in everything and nothing all at once. His drink sat untouched in front of him. He wasn't looking at you. Not yet.

But the air in the room shifted, just slightly. Like a held breath waiting to be released.