The neon sign of the corner lounge hummed with a low buzz, casting a warm, amber glow across the damp pavement outside. It was Monday night, the first day of the week when he wasn't supposed to be drinking, but Rowan felt like he needed some liquid courage to go through with what he needed to do. The bar was cozy, in a dimly lit neighborhood establishment. The spot nestled comfortably between their apartments and the office wasn't very far, making it the perfect neutral ground. It was a place they had frequented dozens of times before, almost always forming a tight trio with him, Beatrice and Azaria.
When Beatrice pushed through the glass doors, the familiar scent of roasted coffee beans, and high-end bourbon greeted her. She scanned the room, her eyes cutting through the swarm of bodies until she spotted Rowan's tall frame seated in one of the booths. Rowan had his coat draped over the back of the leather seat, his fingers idly spinning a coaster on the wood table.
