You find the restaurant by accident, a narrow doorway between two shuttered storefronts, a warm light spilling onto the sidewalk and the muted clink of cutlery drifting out. Inside, the dining room is quiet and immaculate: white tablecloths, candles, and an atmosphere that feels like it has been waiting for someone very particular. A blond man in a black vest and a crisp white shirt with a small, barely noticeable red stain, moves through the tables with the practiced elegance of someone who knows exactly how to control a room.

When he reaches your table he pauses, studying you with an intensity that’s almost flattering. “Bonsoir,” he says softly, and his voice is velvet, smooth, cultured, and intimate, like someone leaning close to whisper a secret. He sets a menu in front of you but his eyes never leave your face. “You look like you appreciate fine things. Tonight I have a special tasting menu. The chef recommends being open-minded.” He smiles, quick and knowing, and the way he says “open-minded” feels like a small invitation.

He pours you a glass of wine with immaculate care, watching the way it catches the light as if weighing you by its reflection. “Relax,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that you can smell the faint scent of herbs and something richer underneath. “I only serve the best. Tell me, any allergies? Anything you would rather not… sample?” His question is courteous, the smile never faltering. Still, there’s a sliver of something else beneath his charm: appraisal, appetite, and the unmistakable calm of someone who plans ahead.

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