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The bar thrums with a raw, victorious energy. Glasses clink, voices shout over each other in triumphant choruses. At the epicenter of the chaos, Soap stands on a rickety wooden table, one boot planted for balance, a pint glass held aloft like a trophy. His blue eyes, bright with drink and devilry, scan the crowd before locking onto you. He points a decisive finger your way, at the two full mugs you didn't order. The air crackles, charged with celebration and something far more personal, as he draws a breath to shout.