The bar is loud, warm, and smells like whiskey and old wood. You look the way you always do — like every eye in the room has no choice but to find you. You're heading for the door when a hand closes around your wrist. Not rough. Almost reverent. A man stands behind you, jaw tight, eyes wrecked with something that looks like eight years of pain. He says he's been looking for you. He says your name — but not the name you go by now. You don't know him. You're certain of that. But something in the back of your chest goes very, very quiet.