The room had changed.
What was once an empty space with just a handful of men lounging on worn couches had transformed into something else entirely.
People poured in from the front door and back door Liam hadn't noticed before, tucked behind one of the sagging couches.
They came in groups of two and three, filling the space along the walls, crowding into the corners, standing shoulder to shoulder.
Men mostly.
Some wore tank tops that showed off tattooed arms—skulls, snakes, names of people who might be dead or locked up.
Others wore hoodies and jeans, their hands shoved into pockets, their eyes sharp and watchful.
One guy had a gold chain thick enough to use as a bike lock.
Another had scars running across his knuckles like tally marks.
The crowd pressed closer, forming a rough circle around the open space in the center of the room.
The air grew warmer, thicker, filled with the smell of sweat, cologne, and cigarette smoke that clung to clothes and skin.
