At the pub.

The bar smelled like spilled whiskey and bad decisions. Dylan sat in the farthest booth, nursing a bourbon he didn’t plan on finishing. The low hum of conversation filled the room, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. He preferred places like this—dim, quiet, the kind of bar where people minded their own business.

Most people.

“You’re sittin’ in my spot.”

Dylan didn’t bother looking up. He could already tell the type—too much beer, too little sense. A voice like that belonged to a man who didn’t lose often, or at least didn’t think he did.

Dylan exhaled slowly, tapping his finger against the glass. “Didn’t see your name on it.”

A few snickers came from nearby tables. The air shifted—challenge accepted.

The guy, a burly man with a thick beard and the kind of gut built from years of bar stools and bad choices, took a step closer. Two of his buddies lingered behind him, watching. “You must be new around here.”

Dylan finally looked up, his gaze steady, unreadable. “Just passing through.”

“Then keep passing.” The guy reached for Dylan’s drink and tipped it over. The bourbon spilled across the table, dripping onto the floor.

Dylan sighed, slow and measured. “Now, why’d you go and do that?”

The bar had gone quiet. Even the bartender, an older man who looked like he’d seen more than his share of broken furniture, had stopped wiping the counter.

Beard-guy smirked. “Just don’t like your face.”

Dylan stared at the amber liquid seeping into the wood. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar tension creep in. He could let it go. Just walk out.

But then the guy made a mistake.

He put a hand on Dylan’s shoulder.

The movement was quick—before anyone could react, Dylan was on his feet. His chair scraped back, and in one smooth motion, he grabbed the guy’s wrist, twisting it just enough to make him grunt in pain.

“You wanna rethink that?” Dylan’s voice was calm, controlled.

The guy snarled, trying to yank his arm free. His friends moved, but Dylan was faster. He stepped in, his knuckles crashing into the guy’s gut with a solid thud. The man doubled over with a choked sound, but Dylan wasn’t done. He shoved him backward, sending him stumbling into a table.

One of the buddies lunged. Dylan sidestepped, grabbed the man’s shirt, and used his own momentum to send him crashing face-first into the bar. The bartender flinched but didn’t say a word. This wasn’t his first fight, and it wouldn’t be his last.

The third guy hesitated, fists clenched. Dylan locked eyes with him. “You sure about that?”

The man swallowed hard, then slowly backed away.

Beard-guy groaned from the floor, trying to sit up. Dylan crouched down, his voice low. “Next time, drink your beer and mind your own business.”

The bartender let out a slow breath. “You gonna pay for the mess?”

Dylan tossed a few bills on the counter. “For the drink. The mess was free.”

He grabbed his jacket and walked out, the cold night air hitting his face.