Chapter - 284
The Rusty Anchor wasn't just a bar; it was a testament to failure. The kind of place where dreams came to die and get pickled in cheap whiskey.
The Harley's roar was swallowed by the oppressive silence of the street as they parked. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer, fryer grease, and the faint, unmistakable tang of urine from the alley beside it.
Inside, the darkness was a physical presence, broken only by the dim, nicotine-stained glow of a few bare bulbs and the flickering neon of a beer sign.
A dozen or so patrons were scattered around the room, hunched over their drinks like gargoyles, their faces etched with the kind of weariness that soap and water couldn't wash away.
On a small, carpeted platform in the corner that generously qualified as a 'stage', sat a scruffy man in his late twenties.
