[center][b]12:41 PM, November 3rd, 2019[/b]
[b]Silver Spoon Bar; Hub City, Illinois[/b][/center][hr]Oscar's attention was diverted from Preston as both cheering and cursing erupted at the same time. He looked around, smirking slightly as he noticed that Hayes was winning the fight. Just a few moments later Ives was down, and Hayes was declared the new champion. Oscar let out a small whoop to fit in with the rest of the people who cheered for Hayes, his smirk growing into a smile.

He turned to Preston as Preston noted that they put money on the fight and won. Oscar nodded, "Yeah, I put about 15 or so bucks on Hayes, should be getting it..." Oscar trailed off as a man approached, saying that they didn't make bets, before moving his jacket aside to show a gun. The vigilante scowled, watching as Preston submitted to the man and didn't do anything. [i]'Was hoping to relax for a few minutes. Oh well.'[/i]

Oscar stood up, stepping between Preston and the thug. Though he was definitely a few inches shorter than the man, he didn't worry; after all, he had taken down larger enemies in fights before. "What do you want, punk?" The thug growled, moving his jacket aside to showcase his pistol once more. That was a mistake.

As fast as he could, Oscar stuck his hand inside the jacket and pulled the gun out. The man barely had time to look surprised before the barrel was jammed under his chin. "My new friend had money on this fight. So did a few others. I want you to pay him and anyone else who bet on Hayes. Understand?" A gulp, followed by a jerky nod. Oscar grinned. "Good." He pulled the pistol away from the thug, unloading it and dismantling it in a few quick motions.

He sat back down on the stool, grinning at Preston. "Well, while you're here on business, remember: someone threatens you, don't sit down and take it. Do a quick assessment and take him down." Oscar downed the last of his beer, wiping his mouth and letting out a satisfied sigh, before standing up. 

"I'm heading out. Don't really care about the money. Here's my number if you want to chat, or if you're in town and need a friend or something." The trench coated vigilante pulled out his journal, turning to a blank page and writing his phone number down before tearing the page out and handing it to Preston. With a tip of his hat, he turned and left the bar. About a block away, he slips into an alley, pulling his mask on and continuing his patrol as The Question.