The bar had quieted. The drunk slumped into a chair, taking another hearty swig of ale, eyes half-lidded, humming a half-forgotten tavern tune. Just as the last cheer died and people returned to their mugs, two individuals entered—faces shadowed under cloaks, movements deliberate and silent. They walked straight toward the drunk.
The man looked up, blinking slowly. "You're not here to stop me, are you?"
No reply—only a blur of movement. One of the cloaked figures stepped forward and delivered a sharp palm strike to the drunk's nape. With a grunt, he collapsed face-first onto the table.
"Show's over," the attacker muttered, catching the man before he slid off the chair. He slung the limp body over his shoulder as murmurs rose around the tavern.
People began scattering quickly, mugs abandoned, chairs squeaking, voices hushed.
Espada narrowed her eyes. "I think those are our leads."
Elric nodded. "Let's follow them. Keep your distance."
