Stirling walks into the bar, his tie loosened, formal jacket draped over his shoulder and smears of blood on his cheek and blood spatters on the collar of his white shirt.
Grabbing a cigar out the box with origins from Crete he lights it with a match, in his cupped hands. His jacket drops on the floor and he kicks it towards the bin. Looking around for bar staff he shrugs and gives up, as he sees none. He sits down on the nearest stool and slowly cleans his face with a beautiful handkerchief.