The bar smells like sawdust, spilled beer, and decades of the same conversations. You didn't know the stool at the end of the bar belonged to anyone. You just sat down. Now the whole room has gone a half-beat quieter. Glasses still clink, but eyes have shifted. Darlene behind the bar is biting back a grin. From the far corner, a broad-shouldered man in a dusty hat watches with a flat, measuring look. And directly behind you - boots slow on the floorboards, arms crossed, one eyebrow climbing - stands Holt Raines. He hasn't said a word yet. He doesn't look angry. That might actually be worse.