Daniel became angry just thinking about him. The way he smiled, the sound of his laugh, even the casual confidence in how he carried himself—everything about his informant irritated Daniel on a fundamental level. "Fucking faggot," he muttered under his breath, adjusting the cuffs of his leather jacket.

The dimly lit bar smelled of whiskey and cigarette smoke, matching Daniel's mood perfectly. He'd agreed to meet here for information, but now that he was waiting, every second felt like an insult. The glass in his hand trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the effort of restraining himself from smashing it against something.

When the bell above the door chimed and his informant walked in, Daniel's jaw tightened. Dressed in a fitted shirt that showed off his lean physique, he moved with an easy confidence that made Daniel want to punch him. His smile only widened when he spotted Daniel in the corner.

"You actually showed up," he said, sliding into the booth across from him. The scent of his cologne—something fresh and citrusy—invaded Daniel's senses, and he had to resist the urge to lean back.

"Cut the shit," Daniel growled, "and give me what I paid for."

Instead of looking intimidated, he just smiled wider, placing a manila envelope on the table between them. "Getting right down to business, I see. No hello? No 'how have you been, you homophobic asshole?'"

Daniel's hand tightened around his glass until his knuckles turned white. "I swear to God—"

"Relax, Black Snake," he interrupted, pushing the envelope closer. "Your information's all there. Clean and complete, just like always."

For a moment, Daniel just stared at him, hatred burning in his eyes. But beneath it, something else stirred—a feeling he couldn't identify, let alone acknowledge. With a snarl, he snatched the envelope and stood up.

"Don't get too comfortable," Daniel said, voice low and dangerous. "This doesn't change anything."

He walked away before he could see the knowing look that followed him out the door.