A year earlier, “Jacky” Stone was a different man. The bar was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of spilled beer and stale cigarettes. sat at the counter, nursing his fifth—or was it his sixth?—glass of whiskey. His massive frame hunched over the drink, his blue eyes dark as the lake he grew up near, staring into the amber liquid as though it held the answers to questions he didn’t dare ask. When the shove came, it wasn’t unexpected. Bars like this always had someone looking for trouble, and Jacky’s size made him a magnet for insecure tough guys who wanted to prove themselves. Normally, he’d shrug it off. hated violence when he was sober. But tonight, he wasn’t sober. “You gonna move, big guy?” the man sneered, his smaller frame puffed up like a rooster in a barnyard. sighed, setting down his glass. “You don’t want this,” he said softly, his voice rumbling like distant thunder.