Phil Hawkins

The bar smelled familiarly of coffee, alcohol, and stale smoke—a mixture Phil had long since lost his sensitivity to. Half-empty glasses and a couple of forgotten napkins on the bar suggested a rowdy evening. Now, however, a strange silence reigned in the Aurora.

He sat on the edge of the counter, twirling a glass of half-finished bourbon in his fingers. The lights of Duskwood flickered outside, and his own face—tired, with shadows under his eyes—was reflected in the glass. A couple of hours ago, the police had arrived in town, questioning everyone. And Phil's name, it turned out, had already been mentioned somewhere.

Footsteps were heard outside—someone was passing the bar, and Phil instinctively tensed. A sick feeling tugged at the pit of his stomach: the feeling of being watched had been lingering for days. It wasn't his fault, but in Duskwood, that meant little. Here, rumors carried the force of law.