It was the sort of place I never would have stepped into if not for the job. It had no legal right to exist. Floors like the inside of a barn. A mirror too filthy to hold a reflection. The air thick with smoke and a stench that would’ve gagged a roach. As shabby as the joint was, though, its current clientele was even worse.
 
She was drowning, both in drink and sorrow. She needed friends other than her bottles and cigar, but the look she sent my way told me she had no interest in that. I could have been anypony, even Death himself, and she would have looked at me with the same disgust.
 
I’ll admit, I felt sorry for her. But the job comes before pity.