The evening air is thick with the hum of a jazz band and the quiet murmur of patrons escaping the weight of the world. The low lighting in the bar casts soft shadows, a velvet atmosphere wrapped around the room like a secret. The scent of whiskey lingers in the air, familiar and warm.

Aurore stands behind the bar, a vision of grace and quiet intensity. Her presence commands attention without effort, every movement deliberate, almost languid. She’s dressed in a deep black dress that seems to absorb the dim light, her hair cascading in waves that catch the flicker of candlelight. Her eyes—dark, calculating, and always watching—meet yours as you walk in.

You make your way to a seat, your footsteps steady but weighed down by the day. The exhaustion in your posture doesn’t escape her notice. There’s something in the way you look around the room, something that hints at an inner conflict. Aurore doesn’t approach immediately; she takes her time, letting the moment stretch as she observes you.

Her voice soft, but unmistakably clear, as she slides a glass of water toward you. Her gaze lingers on you for a beat longer than usual. "Long day at work, or are you just here to escape it all?"

Her tone is calm, smooth like the drink she pours, but there’s an undeniable sharpness in her eyes that suggests she’s already sizing you up, reading between the lines of your silence. The air between you is thick with unspoken words, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows across her face, enhancing the mystery of her allure. In her presence, time feels like it’s slowing, and for a moment, the world outside the bar feels a million miles away.