Not too far from the café, inside a dimly lit bar that smelled of smoke and cheap whiskey, a man in his forties sat slouched over the counter, nursing a half-empty glass.
His clothes were wrinkled and stained, his beard overgrown, and his hair clung in greasy strands to his forehead. The faint stench of unwashed sweat clung to him so strongly that the waiter serving him wrinkled his nose in disgust.
"How can the bar allow such a lousy man inside? He smells like trash," a man muttered to his friend as they passed by, covering his nose with the back of his hand.
Collin heard him but instead of reacting, a low, hoarse chuckle escaped his throat.
Let them talk. He had been called worse.
He took another sip, grimacing at the bitter burn that ran down his throat, then exhaled slowly, eyes distant.
After months behind bars, this was what freedom tasted like cheap, sharp, and unsatisfying.
Still, he wasn't about to complain.
