All this place is good for

It stank like a club. Most clubs do but this one was so... indistinguishable. The scent of expensive tobacco mixing with evaporating alcohol and the indistinguishable odor of humans. The smell of sweat and perfume and oils, the way cologne and hand sanitizer would somehow stand out and assault his nostrils. Meng had a table to himself, the chair was comfy but it creaked whenever he shifted his weight. The low light and muted chatter of the patrons did a lot for the atmosphere, and the dancers on the stage put on a good show. He wasn't sure if this was what he wanted, the drinks were strong and he didn't have to worry about the cost, but it felt hollow.

The whole fucking place felt hollow.

The shot glass on his table was empty. Who's fault was that? Meng picked up the bottle of almost amber liquid. The label was black with the lettering and borders in a gold paint. It was meant to look elegant and classy but what does it matter? Whiskey was Whiskey. Meng took the whole shot but let it remain in his mouth, dancing his tongue through it as he exhaled slowly through his nose. The way it curled and burned like a mouthful of dragon's fire before he swallowed it down. No, it was more letting it trickle into his stomach. The strong taste, the feeling of heat through his chest and gut, and then the kick afterwards. He put the shot glass back down on the table and slowly started to pour from the bottle once more. The heat moved from his torso to his arms and legs, then to his head. With a slow exhale Meng felt the aftertaste start to fade, like swallowing fire without getting burned.

The show on the stage looked like it was ending, people were clapping and Meng clapped too, he wasn't paying attention to the dancers. The lights grew just a little bit brighter, spotlights on the stage turning off as the next act got ready. Meng picked up his shot glass and stared through the translucent, crimson liquid. The people, the city, the club, this whole island. Transparent, illusory, phony. He put the cup back down without drinking and closed his eyes, letting out a long, powerful exhale. He'd paid for the bottle and he was going to drain it, but he could take his time...

He was being watched. It wasn't obvious at first but that feeling that eyes were on him had started to nag at Meng as he took another shot. This one was gone in an instant, no savoring, no contemplating. Training kicked in, and Meng began trying to pick out whoever was staring at him. His eyes did the moving, his head barely turning as he scanned over each face in the room. None seemed to be directly facing towards him, none had eyes that seemed to linger on him too long, it was hard to tell just who it was that was eyeing him up. Maybe it was paranoia? It might just be. It had been a while since anyone had actually looked for him at all, though he did still have enemies...

No, Wait! There! A man with an eyepatch. Freckles, slight tan, hair well maintained and dark brown. Something about him stood out, not just the eyepatch. Had he seen the man before? An experiment was in order. Meng poured another shot and gave the man a small, knowing grin. He lifted the glass to him, a small, token toast. He slowly drained the small shot before putting the glass down and leaning back in his chair, long hair spilling down the back as he stretched out his neck and shoulders. Part of him wanted to get to his feet and walk out, see if he'd be followed. Could be someone with a grudge, could just be an old contact or some forgotten face from some old battlefield. However, he stayed there. Maybe another song and dance number would start, maybe the guy would come over to him. Meng's whiskey bottle was still two-thirds full.

"Harrison." Meng lied, looking at the guy up close and proper. Lean and toned, athlete? He could pass for one but there was too much wear on him, This was a man who had worked. The physique was that of someone still in their prime, fit and proud. The difference between him and Meng was readily apparent. "Haku Harrison." He extended his left hand, palm open invitingly. He had rehearsed in front of the mirror for the better part of a day after getting his papers, it was his name now at this point.

It was the eyepatch, though. Possibly a nautical inclination? It'd match with the weather-worn hair and the tanned skin. He threw out some... was it Spanish? Meng still was bad with that language. It made him hard to place. He was a resident on this island, though, same as Meng. What's more, this guy came over to talk to him, that immediately made him quite interesting. "I got my own drink right here, thanks, but I'll pour you a refill." Meng sloshed his whiskey a bit in the bottle, he still had a good amount.