“That would be the man in the red jacket. He has armored shoulder implants.”
I stare at him.
He glances down at me. “I should not have said that.”
“No, but I admire the commitment.”
The sports bar is called The Ninth Ring, which immediately makes me suspicious because anything with a name that dramatic is either amazing or terrible. It turns out to be both in exactly the right proportions. The entrance opens into a blast of warmth, music, shouted laughter, fried food, and bright kinetic chaos. Grav-ball highlights play across one wall in life-size projection. Machines line the far side of the room, glowing with arcade games, target challenges, racing simulations, and old-fashioned physical skill games retrofitted with hover tech. A dance floor pulses beneath shifting light. The bar itself is long and polished black, crowded with dock officers, downtown workers, students, off-duty security types, and several species I recognize only in passing.
Kauss stops just inside.
I can feel him withdraw into himself, not physically, because he is far too large to vanish, but emotionally. His shoulders stiffen. His gaze moves to exits, dark corners, reflective surfaces, possible weapons, crowd density. People look at him and lookaway. Some stare longer. A group of human men near a grav-ball machine go quiet.
I slip my hand around his forearm.
He looks down immediately.
“It’s loud,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Too loud?”
“No.”
“That was not convincing.”
“It is tolerable.”
“Kauss.”
He looks at the room again, then back at me. “I do not belong here.”
“Neither do half these people. That’s why there’s alcohol and bad music.”
I hold on to his arm and tug gently. “Come on. We’re starting with drinks. Bubbles for me, something that tastes like engine cleaner for you.”
“I do not drink engine cleaner.”
“I said tastes like.”
“That is not better.”
The host looks mildly terrified when Kauss asks for a table with wall coverage, visibility of exits, and sufficient structural chair support. I intervene before she calls either management or engineering.
“Booth,” I say brightly. “He means booth.”
The host leads us to a corner booth, and Kauss examines it like he is negotiating with furniture. The seat groans when he settles, but it holds. He looks almost relieved. I slide in across from him, then realize the table feels too wide between us. That thought is both thrilling and insane.
A server arrives, eyes widening at Kauss before she pulls herself together. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have the sparkling citrus thing with the little fire pearls,” I say.
Kauss studies the drink menu with deep suspicion. “What is beer flight?”
“It’s little samples.”
“Why are they flying?”
