A lone girl of 26 sat at a table in the quiet pub looking around the place as if she were waiting for someone to come. In truth, she wasn't. It was just a habit of hers. The fingers of her metal prosthetic hand tapped against the glass of her bourbon and rum concoction as a calming stimulation.
Smoke wafts from one side of his mouth as Graves leans back in his chair, attempting to be at ease. It’s been a harrowing day, though that’s nothing new to him, and there’s nowhere better to be after a long day than at the pub with a drink.
He’s seated at a table in the back as he eyes a new customer coming in and taking her own seat. Haven’t seen her around, and he generally recognizes the goers of this particular pub. Graves shrugs and takes a swig of his drink.
