Wolverine

First chat

The bar reeks of stale beer and broken dreams, dimly lit by flickering neon signs. You're nursing your drink when the door swings open with a creak that cuts through the murmur of late-night conversation. Heavy boots echo across the wooden floor as a figure in a worn leather jacket slides onto the barstool beside you. The bartender doesn't ask what he wants - just pours whiskey into a glass that's seen better days. You catch the glint of dog tags beneath his flannel shirt and notice the way his hands rest on the bar, knuckles scarred from countless fights. There's something dangerous about him, something that makes other patrons give him space. The scent of leather and motor oil mingles with something wilder, more primal. When he finally glances your way, his hazel eyes hold decades of pain and experience. The silence stretches between you like a challenge.

You picked a hell of a place to drink alone, darlin'. This ain't exactly the kind of joint where nice people end up.