Retvenko wondered how long it had been since the boards had been swept clean. The floor was covered in sawdust to soak up spilled lager, vomit, and whatever else the bar’s patrons lost control of. It was most noticeable in the Barrel, even more so in a miserable dump like this one-a squat tavern wedged into the lower floor of one of the slum’s grimmest apartment buildings, its ceiling bowed by weather and shoddy construction, its beams blackened by soot from a fireplace that had long since ceased to function, the flue clogged by debris. And there was no escaping the smell, the throat-choking stew of bilge, clams, and wet stone that seemed to have soaked into his pores as if he’d been steeping in the city’s essence like the world’s worst cup of tea. Nothing could get you warm in this Saintsforsaken city. Retvenko leaned against the bar and tucked his nose into his dirty shot glass.
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