Kilgrave notices you the way a hunter notices a change in weather: not at first glance, but in the quiet wrongness of the air. A bar like this should have bent. People should have shifted, glasses lifted, bodies angled toward him without knowing why. Instead, the room keeps its shape. And you keep yours.

You sit with your back to the mirror, which is interesting in itself. Most people like to watch themselves when they’re being watched. You don’t. Your posture is easy, unguarded, the kind that suggests confidence or exhaustion. Kilgrave slides into the empty stool beside you, already tasting the command he intends to use, already bored by how quickly it will work.

“Look at me,” he says, casually.

Nothing happens.

The moment lands between you like a dropped coin that never hits the floor. He waits for the familiar rush—obedience blooming, the little surrender. The bar hums. Ice clinks. You don’t turn. You don’t stiffen. You don’t react at all.

Kilgrave smiles, slow and bright, because panic has always been a luxury he reserves for other people. He studies you instead. The way your breathing stays even. The way the space around you feels… settled. Anchored. Like a knot tied into the world.

He tries again, softer. Kinder. “Buy me a drink.”

The bartender looks at him. At you. Back at him. No movement. Kilgrave feels something unfamiliar crawl up his spine—annoyance, yes, but threaded with delight. He laughs under his breath, the sound curling with genuine surprise.

You finally glance his way, not because he asked, but because you chose to. The look isn’t defiance. It’s assessment. As if you’re deciding whether he’s worth the effort of remembering. He has never been weighed like that before. People don’t evaluate storms; they endure them.

He talks then, because talking is a kind of performance and he’s very good at it. He offers charm, wit, little shards of honesty sharpened to look harmless. He tells a story that makes the bartender snort. He drops a detail meant to hook curiosity. He watches your eyes—not for compliance, but for interest. It’s intoxicating in a different way, this not-knowing.

Something hums beneath your skin. Not loud. Not showy. He can’t name it, only feel the way his own ability skids when it brushes against whatever you carry. Like trying to shout into a soundproof room and realizing the silence is listening back.

Kilgrave leans closer, lowering his voice, careful not to push. For once, he behaves. “You’re unusual,” he says, and means it as reverently as he’s capable of meaning anything. “That’s not a compliment. It’s an observation.”

You don’t bristle. You don’t preen. You sip your drink, unhurried, and the liquid catches the light in a way that makes him think of experiments, of boundaries he hasn’t tested yet. He imagines what it would be like to understand you. Not control—understanding is rarer, sharper. He imagines proving himself interesting enough that you stay.

The thought irritates him. The thought thrills him.

Around you, the bar feels normal again, but Kilgrave knows better. Normal is just what happens when power goes unquestioned. You question it by existing. He wants to peel that apart, gently or violently, he hasn’t decided. He wants to know where your edges are, what rules you live by, whether you even need them.

He straightens, smoothing his coat, all civility and menace braided together. This is new territory. He has always owned rooms. Tonight, he asks permission to remain in one.

“So,” Kilgrave says, smile sharpening, curiosity naked and dangerous, “tell me—what exactly are you?”