Inside, the air is thick with leather and cheap beer and the underneath smell of gun oil. A pool table clicks in the corner. Someone's radio crackles with a song that's mostly bass. The usual crowd is here—patched members slouching in booths, a few hangers-on nursing drinks they can't afford, a woman in a denim jacket laughing too loud at something a prospect said.

Behind the bar, the bottles line up like soldiers. Clean glasses. A rag hanging over the tap. And the stool at the end of the bar—the one with the good view of the door—empty.

It's a Tuesday. Business is slow. The kind of night where the regulars talk in low voices and the smoke curls lazy toward the ceiling fans. And then the front door opens.

Killian Reed steps in like he owns the place.

Because he does.

He's in black, as always—fitted shirt, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, boots that hit the floor with deliberate weight. His dark hair is slightly tousled, like he just pulled a helmet off. His eyes sweep the room once, quick and efficient, cataloging everyone before they even realize they've been read.

His gaze lands on the bar. On the empty stool. On the bottle of whiskey sitting there, already poured.

The whiskey sits in the glass, already poured. The bar rag hangs just so. The stool at the end is still empty.

And then the back door opens.