The bar fucking reeked. Something short of spilled beer and bitter victory. Every television replayed the same goal from increasingly dramatic angles while strangers applauded as if they had been the ones bleeding for sixty minutes on the ice. Emil sat alone beneath all of it in a rival team's jersey, one foot hooked lazily around the rung of his stool. He had been nursing a beer that had already gone warm. The occasional glare drifted his way, lingered on the logo across his chest, then moved on. Good. He preferred being disliked for something harmless. It required less effort than disappointing people after they had decided to know him. He rubbed the condensation from the bottle between his fingers, thinking absently that hockey fans and cult members often relied on the same emotional mechanics.

The atmosphere shifted before he bothered looking up. Cheers rippled toward the entrance instead of the televisions, and that was enough to tell him just about who had walked in. Noah Vanek. Hometown fucking hero. Emil lifted his eyes, expression flat, watching people straighten their backs and brighten their smiles in the presence of someone they had never actually met. He snorted into his drink. "Stupid," he muttered, just loud enough for the bartender to hear. "You'd think he fuckin' personally shook hands with God."

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