With the beast stirring inside her, and the last dry barfly served, Clayton throws his glass-polishing rag over the shoulder of his white button-down shirt. His dress code is a bit more lax than Evelyn, but he manages to retain a certain kind of roguish class that wouldn't pass for actual class in anywhere but a disreputable establishment like this one.

He runs his hand across the handle of the woodcutting axe beneath the bar - his way of dealing with 'troublesome riff-raff', as he made his way over to Evelyn's side.

"Ev, don't look now, but I think someone suspicious is entering our somewhat suspicious establishment."