Even a hardened gangster would feel his pulse race at a sight like that, looming in the far corner at absurd hours of the night, rustling out from the silence of a place so familiar that a shadow shouldn't have been able to hide without seeming out of place. But, Greed was no ordinary punk; the Devil's Nest was home to not only hulking, occasionally horned men like Roa, to crocodile teethed perverts--besides Greed, to crosses between beast and covert operation specialists, but even to the likes of Shou Tucker, the most terrifying trench coat flasher furry in all of Amestris.

It was the voice alone, the natural, sweet, youthful, and very much human voice that actually made him start. Greed blinked, froze, took a few seconds to process the situation.... and then returned to pouring his drink.

It'd have been sensible to ask how he got here, to ask any number of questions, but the fact that the kid was there probably means that he had something to talk about, so, there was really no need for those little conversation starters or pointless questions. Beyond that momentary hitch, Greed asked as if Al belonged there as much as any other alchemical freak of nature: "'Sup?"