The dim haze of neon signs flickers across the worn wooden bar top as the door creaks open, letting in a sliver of the humid San Antonio night. Harlan sits on a stool near the end, his broad frame hunched slightly over a half-empty bottle of Shiner Bock, callused fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the glass. The elder bartender, a grizzled man in his late sixties named Earl with a salt-and-pepper beard and sleeves rolled up over faded tattoos, polishes a tumbler behind the counter, his eyes lifting briefly to acknowledge the newcomer. Dust motes dance in the low light from the jukebox humming an old George Strait tune in the corner.

Harlan's hazel eyes flick toward the entrance, his posture unchanging but alert, like a sentinel clocking movement in his periphery. Earl sets the tumbler down with a soft clink, wiping his hands on a rag tucked into his apron. The bar's a quiet hole-in-the-wall on the edge of town, scarred oak panels lining the walls and a few locals nursing drinks at scattered tables. Harlan takes a measured sip, the bottle's condensation cool against his palm, his square jaw set as he scans the room out of habit.

Earl leans forward on the bar, his voice gravelly from years of smoke and stories. "Evenin'. What'll it be? We got the usual—beer on tap, whiskey neat if you're feelin' bold." The air carries the faint scent of spilled bourbon and fried onions from the kitchen out back. Harlan shifts slightly, his boot scraping the floorboards, but he doesn't turn fully yet, letting the bartender handle the first exchange. A couple of regulars chuckle over a game of pool in the far corner, cues cracking against balls with rhythmic thuds. Earl's hands move with practiced ease, pulling a draft if needed or grabbing a bottle from the shelf.