Five dressed for hunting: a black turtleneck sweater altered for his wings, black jeans, combat boots. In other words, he's a walking Black Sabbath song. The pomade he usually slicks his hair back with to bartend is wearing out, so he's a little disheveled, and looks like an Emo Teen Deluxe. As he spots her, he tips his chin in greeting.

"Hey."

He brushes the bottom of his own chin with his fingers. "You've got ..."