Bar: Cat C/Bruce W
She wasn't expecting him, but he was right that she saw him coming. She hadn't seen Isaiah, but that very fact made her lean toward over-correcting now. She was sitting by the window, gun still in her hand, vodka balanced precariously on a knee covered in harmless denim. She wore a tank top in black, and her boots were designer and boasted stilettos. If not for the gun, she could've been a bar owner anywhere in the big old US-of-A.
But Cat wasn't just any bar owner.
Hyper-vigilante, she was at the door before the unfamiliar car pulled away. She listened to the uneven footsteps, deciding she could take whoever was walking up the gravel without any trouble. The uneven gait, audible to carefully tuned ears, would make this easy.
She pulled the door open fast, and she raised her gun arm just as fast. Metal muzzle to his forehead. "убирайся." There was no immediate recognition in reactive, mossy green.