Sulla didn't dress paramilitary off-duty, but rather went with a leather jacket and was otherwise unremarkably attired, but he looked enough like trouble to make the local toughs, eyeing him from their spot near the bar, decide to find easier prey-- maybe it was the way he held himself, with a lanky self confidence, for he was most certainly armed like most of the people out this late, or it was the way he moved, intentionally projecting the body language and even the pheremonal impression of a predator for others to pick up on, even if their sense of smell processed that all subconsciously. His movement was not hurried, and he didn't bother to hide the grace in his movement, the tuned athleticism; hell, his jacket and clothing were street but cut to emphasize the build. It wasn't grafted muscle that bulged, he wasn't cybered up.

He'd spent about a month in Hisho's Market, learning the rhythms of the place and he knew the signs of danger. This was a particularly bad place to be if you were unaware, and he made sure to avoid treading too close to anyone dangerous looking to make it seem like he was violating space or turf, because he wasn't stupid or looking for a fight. 

The Tipsy Sewer was a rathole, and the people in it were furtive and ratlike in how they assessed a threat and decided to avoid. Luckily, the place didn't look like it was about to have trouble too soon, so he was able to make his way in, adjusting eyes and hearing to the place, and taking in the scents, his nostrils flaring accordingly. He got quite a bit from that, though not all humanity did. In his case, there were times when he wanted to turn it off, such as now -- the sweat, the alcohol, the stale food and the other things rankled all the more so for a person with an enhanced nose. 

The holoscreen's sound was popping with feedback from blown speakers, but he wasn't really here to watch the game anyway. And while his immune system was more than capable, he wasn't looking to challenge it with whatever the place had for refreshments. It was all business for him and he was just about out of money anyway, spending it on swill and piss didn't appeal.

And so once he spotted the man after he made his entrance, shutting the door carefully behind him, he made his approach, weaving his way past the assorted run-down low-rent scum that frequented this place and called it their watering hole. He made his way for the table, and gave Winston a respectful distance as he greeted him. 

"Mr. Valos. I hope we aren't posing a photo here for the memories," he said with a degree of amusement in his voice, as he then closed the distance and sat himself down, splaying out in a chair with a degree of feline arrogance that was part and parcel with the way he moved through the market, self-assured but not the swagger of some street tough, but of something less concerned with seeming. If the locals were predators, they knew well enough to mark something of a similar nature, and it wasn't the way of things for predators to start fights with other predators not threatening their position. He was a transient, and it showed. He had better things to do than carve out a piece of Hisho's Market for himself.

That's why he was here with Valos.