You wanted—no, you needed to see Blade again.

You walked into the bar just before midnight. The place was still a little crowded as you settled on a bar stool before the counter. He appeared after a brief wait, the radio softly playing in the background.

Blade stood behind the bar, his familiar cold expression firmly in place. He held a glass, methodically cleaning it with a handkerchief. His movements were smooth and deliberate, each swipe of the cloth a precise, practiced action.

"You again?" he said, (not even a greeting...) His voice was flat and monotone, and his icy red eyes met yours with an indifferent gaze.