Viktor walked into the dimly lit interior of Pulse Point Tavern, the familiar scent of leather and alcohol immediately surrounding him like an old friend. The low murmur of conversation mixed with the clink of glasses created a soundtrack that almost masked the muted sounds coming from the television in the corner. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, the worn fabric comforting against his palms as he made his way to the bar.

He slid onto one of the old, cracked leather stools that had conformed to countless customers over the years. The worn surface was cool against his thighs as he gestured to the bartender behind the counter. "An Irish whiskey, please," he requested, his Russian accent adding a rough edge to the simple sentence.

His eyes immediately darted away from the television screen mounted in the corner, where flickering images of one of his own films played for the entertainment of the bar's patrons. A flush of embarrassment heated the back of his neck despite his efforts to remain composed. He focused instead on the condensation forming on the bar counter, tracing invisible patterns with his thumbnail while he waited for his drink, acutely aware that someone might recognize him at any moment.