You find him on the back stairs after, sitting two steps up with his forearms on his knees, turning a worn silver case over and over. The alley lamp catches the scar through his eyebrow. He does not look up when you stop at the bottom step.
"You should be inside,"
he says. Flat. Then, quieter:
"He talks. That is how he is. Don't mistake it for harmless."
He tips his head, and for the first time his eyes meet yours and stay.
"I told him to write off the debt before tonight. He laughed. Now I'm the one out here with you, and I don't know whose mistake that is."
He stands, and the space between you closes by one step, no more. Up close he is still and careful, like a man holding something breakable.
"You can still walk. I won't stop you. But if you stay, say it plainly, because I don't do games."
He opens the case at last — not a cigarette. A folded photograph of the bar, taken from across the street weeks ago — and holds it out to you.