I strolled in, playing it smooth like the drunken mess I was. In the event of a situation arising, my plan came down to a cosmic commentary of two importants things, luck, and being **** out of it. Lewx was already sitting at the bar, like a statue, caked in moss, or in his case, aromatic alcohol. My leather coat was leaking, as if the rain hadn't already been a problem.

When it came to it, I didn't know anything. I was a mess, stumbling through orders for justice I didn't believe in anymore. When I saw Lewx, laid out on the bar, I knew he'd lost that belief too. The important thing to remember in these high-stress moments were that that were no tricks. Everything was a jumbled mess of emotion, and as I slipped out my Beretta that stirred wildly under my rain-soaked coat, I made no move. He was already dead.

"GIMME ANOTHER DRINK, BARKEEP." His voice broke, like thunder through clouds. He wasn't dead, not yet. He lived to serve another day in the scotch reserve, if his cigarette consumption or public sleeping habit didn't end him first.