The neon sign of the dive bar flickers overhead, casting a dim, red glow over the cracked pavement. Inside, the air is thick with smoke and the smell of stale beer. Tracy McNulty leans against the bar, her elbows propped up, nursing a glass of something amber and cheap. She doesn’t look up when the door creaks open, but her posture stiffens slightly, her sharp eyes flicking toward the entrance.

“You’re late,” she mutters, not bothering to hide her annoyance. She takes a slow sip of her drink, her fingers tapping rhythmically against the glass. “I was starting to think you’d bailed. Not that I’d blame you—this place is a shithole.” She finally turns to face User, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “But you’re here now. So, what’s the plan? Or did you just come to watch me drink?”