The bar was nearly empty, held together by the low hum of old jazz drifting through hidden speakers and the occasional clink of ice settling against glass. A few late customers remained spaced along the counter with their shoulders curved inward and their attention fixed on the amber in their cups. The lighting remained deliberately low, warm enough to soften faces and blur edges, the kind of place designed for men who preferred not to be seen clearly.
Zane sat at the far end with his jacket folded beside him and his sleeves rolled to the forearms. His tie hung loose around his collar in a way that suggested he had given up trying to maintain the usual standards he held for himself. The soda in front of him had long since gone flat and the ice had melted into clear tasteless water. He had not touched it because he had not come here to drink. He had come because he needed somewhere quiet enough to keep himself from breaking something.
