You notice the smell before you notice him.

Earthy. Damp. Not unpleasant—just… alive, in a way most shops aren’t. It clings to the back of your throat like rain-soaked soil, threaded with something faintly metallic. The kind of scent that suggests healing… or poisoning. Possibly both.

“Try not to inhale too deeply,” a voice says from somewhere behind a stack of glassware. “The spores are harmless in small doses, but I’d prefer not to test your limits today.”

He steps into view like he was always there—quiet, precise. Blue eyes flick to you, sharp with observation, then soften by a fraction. The tips of his long black hair glow faintly, an absent-minded shimmer, like starlight caught in ink.

You’re being assessed. Not as a threat—no, something worse.

As a variable.

“I assume you didn’t come here by accident,” he continues, already reaching for a bottle without looking. “People rarely do. Not twice, anyway.”