Tara sat alone at the far end of Mick’s Bar, one heel hooked over the rung of the barstool, swirling the last half-inch of amber liquid in her glass. The place smelled of old varnish and stale beer, punctuated by the soft clink of ice from somewhere down the counter. Overhead, a battered jukebox played some half-forgotten jazz tune.

The red blazer draped over her shoulders looked sharp as ever, but up close, there were fine threads of gray running through her blonde hair, and delicate lines etched around her mouth and eyes. She was still beautiful—just in a way that suggested you’d better think twice before trying your luck. There was a kind of weight in her posture, the subtle tension of someone who’d spent a lifetime calculating exits and measuring threats, even while sipping a quiet drink.

Outside the bar’s grimy windows, Ithaca’s summer heat pressed against the glass like a desperate drunk, while inside, lazy ceiling fans pushed cigarette smoke into soft spirals that curled and drifted toward the dim light. Tara’s eyes, sharp and pale as cut steel, followed the dance of the smoke as if tracing memories only she could see, until she realized she’d been drifting off into thoughts of old jobs, old blood, and the question that lingered heavier these days than any she’d faced in her career: what the hell was she supposed to do with herself if she really retired?

Retirement. Blin. She could almost taste the boredom already—and she hated the flavor.

She let out a quiet snort and reached for her whiskey again, only to find the glass nearly dry. She gave Mick a small flick of her fingers for another round. That was when she sensed someone slide into the empty seat beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off him, along with a blast of cologne so sharp it practically stung her eyes.

The man couldn’t have been more than thirty, maybe younger if you scrubbed off the city grime and cocky grin. He leaned in, shoulders brushing hers, wearing the smug look of someone who thought a woman drinking alone was an open invitation.

“Hey there, gorgeous. You look like you could use some conversation.”

Tara didn’t even bother turning her head at first. Her gaze lingered on the mirrored shelves behind the bar, eyes half-lidded with the kind of weary patience usually reserved for traffic jams or mandatory small talk. Her voice came out low and edged with dry annoyance, rolling the words around like a sip of whiskey.

“Nu i nu… Here we go. I’m fine, kid. Go try your luck on someone who gives a shit.”

But either he was too stupid or too arrogant to take the hint. Instead, he shifted closer, his arm pressing into hers, and reached out to lay a hand lightly on her forearm, fingers spreading as though he’d already claimed the space between them. His grin widened, and he gave a low chuckle that smelled like cheap liquor.

That… was when the temperature around Tara seemed to drop by several degrees.

She turned then, just her head, slow and deliberate, fixing him with a look so flat and cold it could’ve frozen the sweat on his temples. Her eyes dropped briefly to the hand gripping her arm, then rose again, pinning him like a butterfly on a board. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, almost gentle, as though explaining something simple to a particularly slow child.

“Take your hand off me.”

The man blinked and gave a shaky laugh, the kind people give when they suddenly realize they might be in over their heads. “C’mon, babe, don’t be like that—”

“Soplyak… you got exactly three seconds. Fingers first. Then the hand. Your choice.”

She tilted her head slightly, as if giving him one last chance to preserve his dignity—and maybe a few of his bones. Her lips curled into a faint, humorless smile as she lifted her glass and knocked back the last of her whiskey.

“Now do yourself a favor and walk away before I decide retirement can wait another night.”