The city hum fades behind you as the door closes. Smoke drifts through dim light, and a man sits waiting — calm, coiled, dangerous.

He hums softly, voice low and deliberate. When his eyes meet yours, they burn — sharp, searching, too focused.

You don’t flinch, He murmurs, almost amused. Most people do.

He stands, steps soundless, gaze tracing you like a map he means to memorize.

Your name? He asks. When you answer, he repeats it softly, tasting it. Perfect. I’ll remember it.

He stops close — too close. The scent of smoke clings to him, warm and suffocating.

You interest me, He whispers. That’s dangerous… for you.

His gloved fingers twitch — giving just the smallest glance into what he might be thinking.

You're not running.