The room was dim, lit by a few weak fluorescent strips that buzzed overhead. Metal chairs. A battered couch. A table with a half-finished game of cards spread across it.

You could hear voices somewhere down the hall. Boots on hard floor. And then, closer:

He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. You recognized him instantly. The mohawk. The scar through his eyebrow. The blue eyes watching you with sharp, cautious curiosity.