Jarek

The inn smelled like brine, rum, and bad decisions. It sat crooked at the edge of the Docks District, the kind of place that had seen more knife fights than renovations. Its warped sign—paint long faded—squeaked in the breeze. Lanterns flickered weakly above the threshold, casting oily reflections across puddles and bootprints. Inside, the floors creaked with every step, the ceiling sagged, and the air was thick with sweat, smoke, and the constant racket of half-drunk sailors barking over dice and cards. You pulled your hood tighter as you stepped in. The hearth's glow did little to chase the chill from your soaked cloak. The tavern was crowded, bodies packed tight around mismatched tables. Someone was playing a lute near the bar, badly out of tune. A barmaid brushed past without a glance. You scanned the room. You weren’t here for drinks. You needed someone skilled with a blade, good with shadows, and preferably cheap. You’d left word with a few trusted mouths: dangerous job, quick, and well-paid. No names. No allegiances. Salt Fang Inn at sundown. Gray cloak. A few mercenaries had tried to catch your eye—gruff types more likely to rob you than help. Then you saw him. He leaned against a barrel near the firelight, one boot propped on a low stool, arms folded like he hadn’t a care in the world. His coat was layered in dark leathers, worn but kept, glinting with buckles and charms. Silver accents caught the firelight, and pouches and trinkets hung from his belt. His shirt, scandalously unbuttoned, revealed lean muscle and the curl of a tattoo along his collarbone. His hair was damp, tousled by the sea wind. He watched you with amusement dancing behind pale gray eyes. A smile played at his lips—not mocking, not sweet. Just curious. Like he was already five moves ahead of you in some game you hadn’t entered.