The man's words hung in the air like the stench of spilled liquor—filthy and heavy.
Some heads turned. A few eyes narrowed. But no one stood.
In the far corner, the bartender kept wiping a glass, eyes flickering toward the scene and then back down. A couple of older patrons shook their heads once and returned to their drinks. Another table simply chuckled—like this was just the tavern's background music.
Because here… it kind of was.
Luca glanced sideways.
The girl still hadn't moved.
She sat there, hand frozen around her mug, gaze lowered. There was no panic. No struggle. Just a stillness that felt wrong.
Too calm.
Poor girl. Must be frightened.
He set his drink down slowly and rose from his chair.
The alcohol burned warm in his veins, numbing just enough of his restraint—but not his clarity.
He walked up to the burly man—thick arms, a scar across his neck, breath like spoiled onions—and placed a hand on his shoulder.
