The thick haze of smoke and cheap liquor in the air was almost suffocating. To a zombie's senses, it was downright offensive—nothing like the rich, pungent aroma of rot and blood.
"Yeah... this place definitely needs a cleanse," Ethan muttered under his breath, his voice low and cold.
Ever since he stepped into the Mercenary Inn, he'd felt eyes on him. A lot of them. Clearly, the illusion of Dane Walker wasn't just convincing—it was familiar. This guy had a reputation around here.
People were whispering, casting glances his way. Some looked surprised. Others... suspicious.
"Holy shit, that guy actually made it back from Necroterra? Lucky bastard."
"Bet he scored a ton of crystal cores."
"Anyone else notice he's alone? Where's the rest of his squad?"
"If he's the only one who came back... then maybe..."
Their voices were low, barely audible over the din of the bar—but to Ethan's enhanced hearing, it was crystal clear. Every word. Every tone. Every flicker of hostility.
