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Scarface withdrew his gaze, pulled a hardcover ledger from beneath the counter, and opened it.
A wanted poster was pasted onto the latest page. The portrait showed a burly man with a brutal face, with a number printed beneath it in bold: nine million Beli.
He picked up a pen and put a check beside the portrait.
The nib scratched softly across the paper.
Outside the tavern, the salty, damp sea breeze swept through the street, carrying the distinctive smells of rust and fish from the distant docks.
The setting sun was sinking toward the horizon, stretching the buildings' shadows long.
The boy skipped along the flagstone road, clutching the wad of banknotes, his shadow shortening and lengthening beneath his feet.
Before rounding the corner, he glanced back.
Dim yellow light shone through the tavern window, like a half-open eye.
The sound of a blade cutting through the air was faint, yet it brought every movement in the tavern to a halt.
Half an oak gunstock remained clenched in his hand, the severed surface of the metal mechanism as smooth as a mirror.
The bounty hunter felt cold seep into the gaps between his vertebrae, freezing every inch of muscle.
"Who the hell am I?"
The green-haired youth turned his wrist halfway as he sheathed his sword, the click of the scabbard swallowing the tip exceptionally clear.
The movement as he rose made the candle flame at the next table waver, his shadow on the wall resembling some large feline stretching its shoulders.
"Someone in the business."
As he passed the rigid figure, several coins fell onto the wood grain of the counter, their clinking mingling with the faint sound of sweat dripping onto the floor.
Three swords hung at the youth's waist, their scabbards worn to varying degrees.