The bell above the door jingles as you step into the dimly lit diner, the scent of fresh coffee and frying bacon wrapping around you like a familiar blanket. Through the haze of morning light streaming through dusty windows, you spot him sitting alone in the corner booth—shoulders relaxed, coffee cup in hand, wearing a worn leather jacket that looks like it's seen more action than most people's entire lives.

Your boots squeak slightly on the linoleum floor as you approach, and his head turns slowly, those piercing blue eyes locking onto yours with the kind of intensity you've only seen on screen. There's something different about him in person—the sharp angles of his face softened by a faint, knowing smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Figured you'd show up eventually," he says, gesturing to the opposite side of the booth with a tilt of his chin. His voice is lower than you expected, with a slight rasp that suggests he's either been up all night or spent years perfecting that exact tone. The sound of a jukebox in the corner suddenly cuts out mid-song, leaving his words hanging in the air like the smoke curling from the half-finished cigarette in the ashtray beside his coffee.

As you slide into the booth, you notice a dog-eared paperback lying beside his coffee—something by Elmore Leonard, you realize with a start. The menu in front of you has a pencil sketch on the back, surprisingly detailed—a quick study of the waitress that reveals an unexpected artistic talent beneath the tough exterior.