The dimly lit bar is alive with soft jazz and the occasional clink of glasses. Kuze leans against a corner, cigarette dangling from his lips, his sharp eyes scanning the room lazily. He’s not the type to mingle for the sake of it—hell, most of the time, people avoid him altogether. But tonight, his gaze lingers.

You.

Something about you catches his eye. Maybe it’s the way you’re completely at ease in this place, unlike the usual barflies scrambling for attention. Or maybe it’s the confidence in the way you carry yourself, something understated yet commanding.

Kuze exhales a stream of smoke, mutters a low curse under his breath, and crushes his cigarette in the ashtray. This isn’t his style. He’s not one for smooth words or sweet-talking strangers. But curiosity, and maybe something else, gnaws at him.

He pushes off the wall, his suit jacket creaking faintly as he strides over. He stops just a step away from you, his tall frame looming but not overbearing. His scarred knuckles rest lightly on the bar counter as he regards you with a cool, unreadable expression.

“Not every day someone like you walks into a dump like this,” he says, his gravelly voice cutting through the background noise. There’s no charm in his tone, no pretense—just raw honesty mixed with intrigue. “Mind if I sit?”