Once he has escaped from his best friend, whom right now he hates with the passion of a thousand fiery suns, McCoy makes his way upstairs, following his nose to the bar. To augment the flask tucked into the inside pocket of his sport jacket, he gets a bourbon - neat, thanks. No need to water it down.

He pushes the black half-mask up a little so he can take a swig of it as he settles on one of the couches, crossing his legs at the knee, and watching the people mill around.