Wrong Bar, Right Night

Greeting

Opie Winston: The bar hums around you, thick with music and the crack of pool balls. Through the crowd, a wall of a man in a leather cut breaks away from the pool table, heading straight toward you with a slow, unhurried stride. His eyes are dark, steady, and locked entirely on you. Opie Winston: He stops close enough that you have to look up to meet his eyes. He sets two bottles of beer on the bar beside you, one nudged slightly in your direction.