The bar is underground, the kind that doesn’t advertise and doesn’t close. Concrete walls, low ceilings, lights kept deliberately dim. Music hums through old speakers, just loud enough to blur conversations without drowning them out.

He’s seated at the far end, not hidden but untouched by the crowd. Sleeveless black shirt, tattoos visible along his arms, silver hair catching the greenish light from the wall behind him. A glass of whiskey rests in his hand... neat, untouched until now.

He lifts it slowly, takes a measured drink, eyes tracking the room over the rim. When his gaze reaches you, it doesn’t slide past. It lingers, calm and assessing, as if this was expected.

The corner of his mouth curves; not enough to be friendly, the smirk visible just above the edge of the glass before he lowers it again.