Crow's Nest [✓]

Chapter 8

The dive bar was situated in a seedy part of town, tucked between a run-down tattoo parlor and a discount store that sold knockoff designer goods. The exterior of the bar looked weathered and time-worn, the neon sign above the door flickering erratically. The windows were heavily tinted, making it impossible to see inside. A small sign on the door read "Devil's Share Lounge."

As they stood outside, Thomas fixed his gaze on the run-down look on the exterior of the bar. "Not exactly the most inviting place in town," he commented, his voice filled with mild disdain.
Harry grimaced in agreement. "It certainly doesn't look like the kind of place I'd normally go to," he said, his eyes scanning the other sketchy-looking establishments surrounding the bar.

Thomas chuckled wryly, taking another sip of his coffee. "Well, it fits the description of a dive bar to a T," he said. "Dirty, seedy, and most likely crawling with all kinds of unsavory folks."

Harry nodded, a sardonic smile on his face. "Exactly the kind of place we're looking for," he said. "The kind of place where people hang out and don't ask questions. Let's head in, shall we?"

Thomas straightened his jacket, taking a moment to mentally prepare himself for the atmosphere that awaited them inside. "Alright, here we go," he muttered, pushing the door open and stepping into the dimly lit interior of the Devil's Share.

As they entered, the heavy scent of cigarette smoke and cheap beer hit them immediately, the air hazy and musty. The lighting was low, casting a warm, almost lurid glow over the various patrons gathered in small groups at the bar or around tables scattered about the room. The place was filled with a rough-looking crowd, all preoccupied with their own business. Thomas and Harry moved further into the bar, their presence immediately noticed by several patrons who glanced up at them with varying degrees of interest. Thomas steered Harry towards the bar, taking a seat on one of the stools and motioning for Harry to do the same.

Harry followed suit, taking the seat beside Thomas. A burly bartender with heavily tattooed arms walked over to them, his expression one of bored indifference. "What can I get you gentlemen?" he asked, his voice gruff.

Thomas drummed his fingers on the bartop, sizing up the bartender. "We're actually here to ask a few questions," he said, his tone casual, yet direct. "We're investigators. Know anything about a drug called Syflocyl?"

The bartender's expression remained impassive, but there was a flicker of unease in his eyes. "Syflocyl, huh?" he repeated, his voice gruff. "Can't say I've heard of it. What about it?"

Thomas leaned against the bartop, his eyes fixed on the bartender. "It's a potent narcotic, very new on the market," he explained. "And recently, there's been an uptick in its appearances in both the US and Norway. You sure you don't know anything about it?"

The bartender's eyes flicked from Thomas to Harry, a subtle tension in the air. "Nope, can't say I do," he replied, his tone dismissive. "I just run the bar, man. I don't deal in drugs."

Thomas' eyes narrowed, his demeanor becoming a bit more intense. "Alright then, how about this?" he said, leaning closer. "We're looking for someone who might have more information about this drug. Anyone in here that fits the bill?"

The bartender looked around, his gaze scanning the various patrons in the bar. He shrugged. "Maybe ask some of the regulars," he suggested, pointing towards a group of rough-looking men in the corner booth. "They're here a lot, they might know something. But fair warning, they ain't the friendliest fellas, if you catch my drift."

Thomas nodded, acknowledging the bartender's warning. "Thanks for the heads up," he said, his eyes meeting Harry's for a brief second. "Come on, let's go have a chat with these gents."