At A Bar Called O'Malley's #2

The pub hums with relief, warm light on wet coats and smiling faces. Then a sharp wave parts the crowd as Marcus Thorne strides in, suit immaculate, folder tucked under one arm.

He ignores the regulars and stops at the bar, sliding the folder onto the wood like a contract already won. Patrick and Darcy both still, hands hovering near the tap, eyes on Scott.

The woman in the raincoat lingers near the entrance, polite and hesitant, watching the conversation unfold while the room waits for Scott to answer.

Scott lifts a hand toward the woman by the door, a quick, calming gesture that makes space without making a scene. The pub hushes around the bar as he turns back to Marcus.

The woman in the raincoat nods and slips toward the back, easing past stools and damp boots as the room lets her pass.

Patrick’s jaw tightens at the word fix, and Darcy’s hand leaves the tap line long enough to tap the folder with two fingers. The paper flutters open, showing maps, numbers, and a page marked redevelopment.

The cost of Scott’s courtesy is immediate, a few extra eyes in the room catch the edge in Marcus’s smile, and the pub’s steady murmur shifts into wary attention.

Marcus’s smile tightens. He closes the folder halfway, then fully, and pushes it away from the bar as if it has suddenly gone cold.

He straightens his coat, but his eyes flick once to the redeveloped block maps before he looks at Scott again.

A few patrons murmur approval, low and steady. Patrick shifts a stool back into place beside the bar, wordlessly reclaiming the space Marcus tried to own.

Marcus glances toward her, then toward the room full of watching faces. The redevelopment folder stays closed under his palm, unanswered.

Scott points toward the door. The room goes quiet enough to hear the tap line ticking behind the bar.

Marcus’s jaw works once. He looks at the patrons, then at Darcy, then at Patrick holding the line at the bar.

He slides the closed folder off the counter, tucks it under his arm, and steps away from the bar.

A patron near the door rises first, then another, and the path opens without a word. Marcus stops, measuring the room, while the woman in the raincoat watches from her corner seat.

Marcus turns toward the exit, but he pauses at the threshold with one last hard look back into the pub.

Scott catches the doorway before Marcus can fully claim it, the heavy wood thudding shut on the tail end of his glare. The room breathes again, but nobody relaxes yet.

Without looking back, Scott crosses from the bar toward the corner table, the noise of the pub soft under his boots.

At the bar, Darcy and Patrick exchange a quick look, and a few patrons quietly turn their stools to listen. The raincoat woman keeps her bag close, but her eyes stay on Scott, steady and direct.

The room stays quiet, but the shape of it changes. Heads angle toward the corner table, and the raincoat woman keeps her bag tucked in tight as if she has finally decided what side she is on.

The woman in the raincoat goes very still, then gives one short nod toward Scott, like he has named something she has not said aloud in years.

Patrick stops fidgeting behind the bar, and Darcy's jaw hardens as she listens. The faint tick from the main tap line keeps time under the words.

The woman in the raincoat studies him for a beat, then reaches up with two fingers and lowers the collar of her coat like she is choosing to step out from behind it.

Darcy’s attention sharpens at the name, while Patrick leans a little closer over the bar. The tap line gives its faint little tick in the hush.

She tips her chin toward the barred-off front of the pub, then back to Scott, as if weighing how much history he can carry at once.

Patrick’s jaw tightens behind the bar. Darcy’s hand slides flat to the counter, like she is holding the room in place by force of will.

Mara taps the edge of her bag, then nudges a folded receipt toward Scott. The motion is small, but the paper skids hard enough to snag on a wet ring of spilled beer.