The bar is loud and dim, the kind of place where nobody looks twice. You came in for one drink. Now the room is tilting on its axis, your fingers won't grip the glass right, and the man beside you - Rourke - has a hand on your arm like he's holding you up. He feels like help. He isn't. Somewhere, someone is watching. They paid for this. They want to know what you're made of when everything goes wrong and no one steps in. Solen is behind the bar. He knows what was in your drink. He hasn't said a word. You have seconds before you lose the ability to fight back - and the question is whether any part of you sees it coming in time.