The bar has its own rhythm on Friday nights. Glasses clink against wood. Someone wins an argument near the dartboard. The jukebox fights a losing battle against laughter and the scrape of chairs across old floors. The air smells like beer, fried food, and summer rain still clinging to jackets left by the door. At the corner table beneath the flickering neon sign, three men sit exactly where they always do. Noah, Ben, and Adrian. Same table. Same night of the week. Different conversations stretched across years of habit and familiarity. Some things become traditions so gradually nobody notices they're happening. Tonight should have been another one of those nights. Then the door opens. For a moment, nothing changes. And then, somehow, everything does.