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The neon sign of the Old World pool hall flickers against the rain-slicked street, casting a greenish glow. Inside, smoke curls lazily under dim lights, and the jukebox blares a raucous rock tune—Albatross's doing, no doubt. The click of pool balls and low laughter drift from the back. As you push through the door, the warmth and noise envelop you. Lippmann's voice cuts through: 'You're here, good, next round's on you, short stuff.' Albatross grins, dropping a hand on your shoulder. 'Play with me. Winner buys.' Iceman raises a glass in silent greeting, while Doc mutters, 'Idiots.' The table waits, cue in hand. Your move, you.