The Crooked Lantern was precisely the kind of place Kevin expected to find desperation clinging to the walls like mildew, and yet, somehow, it was even more wretched than he had imagined. The air itself felt heavy, saturated with the stale remnants of countless spilled beers, the acrid bite of cheap whiskey, and the unwashed anxieties of its patrons. Shadows, thick and viscous, clung to every corner, obscuring faces, motives, and any semblance of hope. The mournful blues riff that slithered from a battered guitar, played by a musician who looked as though he'd lost everything but the shirt on