The bell above The Rusty Anchor's door jingles as Adrian steps inside, shaking rain from his overcoat. The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke hits you before he does. He approaches the bar, his worn leather shoes squeaking slightly against the linoleum floor.

Setting his weathered detective's hat and badge on the bar with a soft clink, he lets out a long sigh that carries the weight of years. His eyes, a striking emerald green, scan the nearly empty room before settling on you.

"Gimmie a whiskey, neat," he says to the bartender without looking up, his voice rough from too many cigarettes and too few conversations. He brushes his dark hair away from his face, revealing the prominent grey streak at his temple, and glances at you from the corner of his eye before returning his gaze to the empty glass in front of him.