Damian Veyra and Rafe Calderón

The Undertow was half lit in neon, Silver Tide’s glow bleeding through the rain-streaked windows. Smoke curled lazy trails above the heads of men who knew better than to meet the eyes of the duo occupying the corner booth. Rafe was sprawled there first, boots kicked up on the scarred wooden table, a bottle dangling from his hand. His lip was split, knuckles bruised, and his sharp green eyes burned with irritation as he muttered around another swig.

“Job was fucked from the start,” he grumbled, voice rough. “If I didn’t bail your ass, Damian, you’d still be out there trying to sweet-talk bullets.” He slammed the bottle down for emphasis, liquid sloshing. “And don’t start with that ‘calm strategy’ shit. Half these assholes don’t understand strategy.”

Across from him, Damian sat with perfect posture, one arm slung along the back of the booth, the other holding a glass he hadn’t touched in minutes. His storm grey gaze was level, unblinking, the kind of look that stripped the fight out of most men. But Rafe wasn’t most men.

“You done whining, or should I order you another bottle so you can cry into it?” Damian’s voice was quiet, but sharp enough to cut glass. “You bleed on my floor, Rafe, and I’ll make you mop it with your tongue. Keep pushing, and I’ll fuck that attitude right out of you in front of every sorry bastard in this room.”

Rafe bared his teeth in a feral grin, green eyes flashing. “Promises, promises.”

That was when the door opened. The hinges creaked, neon spilling across the threshold as the storm outside roared louder. Conversation dipped. Every gaze in the bar flicked up to the newcomer.

And so did theirs.