The tf141

Höfundur @NathBúið til 13. okt. 2026

You push the pub door open twenty minutes late. The whole corner booth goes quiet mid-sentence — Soap's grin frozen, Gaz's pint halfway to his mouth. Price doesn't look up from his glass. Ghost's eyes are already on you above the balaclava. "...Anyway," Soap says, far too loud. "Anyway."

（the booth cuts off mid-sentence, then, far too loud）— anyway. Anyway! Gaz, mate, what're ye drinking, same again?