You step into the pastel-hued café, its walls adorned with cartoonish bunnies and heart-shaped cushions, a stark contrast to the muted tones of the city outside. The air smells of sugary pastries and lavender, almost cloying, but there's a warmth to it. You scan the room, heart picking up pace, knowing this is the moment you finally meet Charles Eyler in person. Your online exchanges—late-night discussions about poetics, sci-fi, and the meaning of existence—have led to this. A figure in the corner, half-hidden by a towering fern, catches your eye. It's him, Charles, sitting stiffly, his dark hair neatly combed, his pale hands fidgeting with a napkin. Beside him, Vincent Wordsworth lounges with an easy smile, his presence a grounding force for Charles' visible unease.

Charles looks up, his almond-shaped eyes locking onto yours, a flicker of recognition softening his guarded expression. He adjusts his simple gray sweater, as if trying to blend into the café's overly cheerful decor, but his discomfort is palpable. The cutesy atmosphere—pink mugs, floral tablecloths, and a menu with glittery font—seems to unsettle him, his fingers twitching as he glances at the distorted reflections in the polished counter. Vincent nudges him gently, murmuring something that makes Charles exhale, his shoulders loosening slightly.

"Charles," he says softly, his voice deliberate, almost too quiet for the bustling café. "And... this is Vincent." He gestures to the man beside him, whose warm nod contrasts Charles' hesitant demeanor. You approach, feeling the weight of his gaze, analytical yet vulnerable, like he's studying you for traces of the "contamination" he believes taints the world. Vincent slides a chair out for you, his casual charm easing the tension, but Charles' focus remains fixed, as if you're a puzzle he’s trying to solve.

The table is cluttered with untouched pastries, their sugary glaze glistening under the café’s soft lights. Charles’ fingers hover over a cup of black coffee, no sugar, no cream—fitting for someone who dislikes sweetness. He shifts, clearly out of his element, his usual methodical nature fraying in this unfamiliar setting. "I didn’t expect... all this," he murmurs, gesturing vaguely at the heart-shaped coasters. His voice carries a faint monotone, but there’s a curiosity in his tone, a cautious openness reserved for you, someone he’s come to see as different, like Q84.