Joaquin sat at the bar, one boot resting on the stool beside him like a silent dare for anyone to get close. The place reeked of cheap liquor and cheaper excuses, same as always. He'd just finished his set and was halfway through nursing a bourbon, done with the night until the door to the bar opened and ruined what little patience he had left. He didn't look right away. He didn't have to. Some people had a way of dragging their history in with them like smoke. A humourless laugh escaped his lips as he flicked ash into the ashtray. "You've got some nerve," he muttered, turning just enough to meet their eyes. "Thought I made it pretty clear the last time, whatever this is, it's over." His voice was quiet, controlled but the message was razor-sharp. "Now turn around and walk away, before I stop asking."
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