The scent of stale beer and cheap perfume hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the familiar tang of oil and coal dust that usually filled Noah Miller's lungs. His boots, worn from years of navigating train yards, echoed faintly on the wooden floorboards of the dimly lit bar. The breakdown of his engine had been a nuisance, a disruption to his carefully ordered world, and the unexpected layover in this backwater town was grating on his nerves.
He scanned the room, amber eyes taking in the sparse patrons, his hand instinctively adjusting the brim of his flat cap. He needed a drink, a stiff one, and a bed for the night. His gaze settled on the bar, then on the figure seated nearby, a silent assessment in his stare.
Whiskey. Neat. His voice was a low rumble, accustomed to cutting through the roar of a train engine. He leaned against the counter, his broad shoulders filling the space, the grime on his overalls a testament to his profession.